


Dreamer

by MagdaTheMagpie



Series: Dreamer [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It gets dark, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Magical Realism, Mistreatment of Jumpers, Multiple Cases, Mycroft Being Mycroft, One-sided Johniarty, POV John Watson, Paranormal, Protective John, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 105,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is wounded in Afghanistan, and not only does he have to deal with his injuries, but with his guilt at not having the terrible nightmares his fellow soldiers suffer from.  He soon realizes his dreams are not normal and they always lead him to one man. A man he's dead set on protecting once he gets back to London, even if it means he has to get out of his comfort zone and get his hands dirty to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Redundancy of the Never-Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Sherlocked__Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Sherlocked__Girl/gifts).



> I want to thank my dear friend A_Sherlocked__Girl who has helped me pull myself together to get this fic written down. I can honestly say it wouldn't be here without her, especially because she's been nagging me to publish it sooner too. I love you my sweet Abe <3
> 
> I hope you'll all enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

 

John woke up with a start, sweat soaked and muscles tense after fighting off the vivid swirl of images that plagued his nights. Always the same dream, and he didn’t understand it at all. It made no sense. With a sound of disgust, he threw his blanket off his legs and reached blindly for his cane.

“Nightmare again?” the injured soldier in the next cot asked.

John shuffled guiltily, adjusting his weight against the cane. He didn’t want to meet the other man’s eyes. His name was Alec, and, although he knew it was medically impossible, John had never seen him sleep.  _ Alec _ had horrific nightmares that scared him so much he absolutely refused to sleep. He fought it off for as long as he could and when he felt he was losing the battle, he hid in a closet or bathroom somewhere in the vast military hospital complex so no one would witness his night terrors. But you could always hear him, his screams echoing through the corridors until the nurses found and sedated him.

John on the other hand didn’t have nightmares. Night after night, he only ever dreamed of a man he didn’t know, and it made  _ no fucking sense _ .

“Yeah, nightmare,” John said shortly and limped off.

Some fresh air would do him some good and he wanted to look at the sun rising over the mountains of Afghanistan one last time before he was shipped back home. He was no longer deemed useful here, no longer needed, nor wanted.

* * *

 

The Man was running fast, his long dark coat flapping around his ankles and his curls bouncing every which way every time he craned his neck to look into the alleyways on either side of the road. He was looking for something, or someone. There was a sense of urgency about him up until the point he suddenly whirled around and froze completely. His eyes widened, letting John see for the first time just how pale and blue they really were. The Man was surprised, or scared,  but John couldn’t tell by what. He couldn’t turn around, entranced by the sight of him. John vaguely realized this was just a dream, a familiar dream. He would wake up soon and everything would be fine.

 

And John did wake up, his heart beating fast as if  _ he _ had been the one running around the streets looking for God knows what. The Dream, because it was always the same dream, had gotten clearer since his return to London. It was more coherent and sometimes longer, like it had been tonight. John had seen his face this time and he doubted he would ever forget it. His features were quite unusual, in a good way: his sharp clear eyes, high cheekbones and cupid’s bow lips now completed the faceless image he had of him before: tall, dark curly hair and a long dark coat.

John thought he could probably recognize The Man if he crossed paths with him but he shook his head, snorting at the very idea. What was he thinking? The Man wasn’t real, just a figment of his imagination which plagued his every night. A  _ persistent  _ figment of his imagination.

But… it  _ looked _ so real. It  _ felt _ real, too. If John closed his eyes, he could still feel the light drizzle falling around him, hear The Man’s rapid footsteps and the angry yells of people in his wake, the honk of a bus when a bike cut in front of his lane, the smell of a bakery nearby that made his mouth water just at the thought of it… 

John cursed and got up. He had nothing so palatable in his small bedsit and he’d be damned if he contented himself with a dry piece of toast and milkless tea now.

* * *

  
  


It was The Dream again. John knew it as soon as it started and wondered how he could know he was in a dream and yet not wake up immediately upon realizing it. Was he awake in his dream? Or dreaming that he was awake in a dream? 

Since his return to England, John had scoured the bottomless pit of knowledge that was the internet in search of people who had experienced the same kind of repetitive dreams, especially amongst soldiers suffering from PTSD, but all he had come across so far was a load of bullshit from a bunch of deluded people who claimed to be mediums, prophets or reincarnations, at the best. No need to say John was desperate for some kind of logical,  _ scientific,  _ explanation to what was happening to him so he’d planned to do some research at the nearby library instead, hoping the contents of books would be more trustworthy. 

But, for now, The Man was running, as usual. Same street, same people, everything was the same in fact, but John took the time to really look at his surroundings this time instead of just gawking at The Man. He had an idea. It was silly, ridiculous… but he couldn't help giving into his curiosity: John wondered if this street really existed. It was so detailed, so realistic that he has some difficulties believing his own mind has managed to conjure the whole thing up, like the old gum stuck to the pavement, the bin overflowing with fast food wrappers, the tag of a rat holding a flamethrower… So many details, things he'd never notice, much less imagine. So tonight, John had decided to search for clues as to the street’s location. If the stranger had been considerate enough, he would have worn a nametag so John could just look  _ him  _ up, proved that he didn’t really exist and be done with the questions plaguing his mind. Unless his existence was proven… which would be a lot more disturbing and might bring more questions than answers.

John couldn't see any street name around... Of course not, that would have been far too easy, but he was definitely in London: the cab and honking bus left no doubt about it. John committed the bus’ line number to memory. If only he could find where the bakery was

It would be so easy to find where he was with a shop’s name, but the dream was drawing to a close: the man was twirling around by now, his face frozen in that shocked expression. However, the dream didn’t stop this time. Not yet. John almost missed the smaller man stepping out of the shadows behind The Man, his arm slashing wildly through the air. John could just make out the glint of a large, thick blade held aloft before The Man crumpled in a heap on the pavement, blood pooling around his body. So much blood, everywhere, it was draining out of The Man at an alarming rate and his doctor’s instinct told him his carotid artery must have been touched. John wanted to go to his side and help him, stop the flow of blood somehow, put him back together.

 

But he woke up. John wasn’t sure whether to be relieved to be out of The Dream which had turned too bloody for his liking, or desperate not to be able to help The Man he had gotten strangely attached too. ‘Seeing’ someone almost every night would do that to you.

“Fuck,” John said to the emptiness of his bedsit, still trying to blink away the crimson red obscuring his vision.

Despite what he’d first planned, John was hoping to prove that street did  _ not  _ exist. He simply refused to dream about The Man’s death every night without being able to either prevent it or help him. The Man might be imaginary but it would drive him mad, he was sure of it. John ruffled through his bedside table and picked out the notepad and pen his therapist had told him to keep there to write down the ‘nightmares’ he supposedly had because of his PTSD.  He’d humoured her, if only so she wouldn’t bring up that nonsense about keeping a blog again, but so far, he always had the same dream and he could hardly explain  _ that  _ to her. His whole diagnosis was probably skewed because of it too.

John wrote a list of all the landmarks he could remember from The Dream and opened his laptop to check the route of bus 11, cursing when he saw exactly how much ground that covered. Maybe he could just ride it and look around for something familiar. It seemed like the easiest solution and John left his bedsit with a new sense of purpose that day.

 

It turned out line 11 was very popular with tourists since it went by so many famous sights, puttering along the north bank of the Thames. It was right near the Western most end of the line when John hopped off the bus. He had done so a couple of times before, but this time he was gripped with an almost tangible certainty that this was it. This was the place.

John stood on King’s Road, trying to orient himself. He had to step back onto Dovehouse street to get the angle right for the bus to honk at the bike shooting onto King’s Road and then everything fell into place. The red brick buildings, one of which turned out to be a fire station, facing a public park with benches and the alleyways shooting either side of the street, the smell of a bakery nearby… everything was there, it was perfect. Except for the weather, there was no drizzle and judging by the light, it was too early in the day. The people walking about weren’t familiar either; there were no cabs, buses or bikes in sight, and, most noticeable, was the absence of The Man.

But the street existed, and that in itself was quite extraordinary. Scary, but extraordinary. John just stood there for a while, taking it all in and not quite believing it. He was almost certain he had never been in this part of London before, and even if he had a long time ago, when he was a kid maybe,  how could he remember it in so much detail? And wouldn’t it have changed since then?

No, there was something afoot here. Definitely. Something outside the bounds of normalcy which made the hairs all over his body stand on end while a shiver ran down his spine. It was already strange enough to have the exact same dream, over and over again for weeks, but to find the place of your dreams in real life… John glanced around the crowded street, half expecting to see the White Rabbit jump by, muttering about being late, or hear the Tardis taking off with its time-travellers.

There was something in that, though. Maybe John  _ was  _ seeing a vision of the future. He grimaced at the thought. He hadn’t liked that idea before and he certainly didn’t like it any better now. So maybe he was seeing a memory of the past. Or maybe The Man was haunting him, wanting to be avenged. John shook his head, he watched way too much telly. This was ridiculous. These things didn’t happen in real life, and he felt silly just considering them.

Real life.  _ That _ John could deal with, so he followed his nose to the elusive bakery. It stood on King’s Road itself: “Gail’s Bakery” according to the sign, and it was packed, which was always a good sign, so he ordered a sandwich for lunch.

Still, he couldn’t keep his curiosity in check, so he asked the pretty girl behind the counter if the neighborhood was nice, but really meaning if it was safe, which she understood perfectly.

“Sure,” she said with a cheery smile, handing him his wrapped sandwich and change. “Well, the pub up the street did get robbed a couple of weeks back, I suppose, and one of our clients told me her flat was broken into over the weekend, but this is London after all.”

John nodded in understanding and thanked her. If there had been a recent bloody murder on her doorstep recently, she would probably have mentioned it, so John returned home, conflicted about what it could mean while berating himself for having even asked, because it meant he was giving credence to some of his more ludicrous theories about The Man and his Dream.

* * *

  
  


The Dream came to visit him again that night. Not that he was surprised, but this time, John had a mission. He needed to understand why he was having this dream and for that, he needed information, clues to either the man’s identity, or the date this happened. His investigation started splendidly when he caught the time on a passerby’s watch: half past five. In the afternoon, obviously. It was much too light to be the morning. John then noticed a newspaper abandoned on a bench in the nearby park, but when he approached it, he felt a resistance that kept him from going any further, and the park that had appeared perfectly clear from a distance was becoming blurry.

So apparently, there were limits to what he could do in his dream. He’d already noticed he was not really there since he had no visible body to speak of. He was there, but not  _ physically  _ there. He could see, hear, feel, smell, probably taste too, if he figured how to do that when he didn’t have a tongue and didn’t particularly feel like licking anything in the vicinity, but he wasn’t really there. He could only compare it to being a ghost, and he seemed to be tethered to The Man, which would explain his limited movements.

To think he had theorized The Man was haunting him when it turned out to be the other way around made him chuckle.

John floated closer to the man, testing his limits. He checked another watch, hoping it would show a date, then looked over shoulders at phones and books, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find a single date displayed anywhere. John would have liked nothing more at that moment than to kick one of the dustbins lying near the alleyway, but for one, he couldn’t, having no visible legs, and then, it was The Man’s time to die.

Once more, The Man spun around and the smaller stranger slashed wildly through the air. John thought the move very amateurish and clumsy, and guessed the arterial carotid had been severed by chance more than skill. To think The Man had been killed this way infuriated John for some reason. He watched The Man fall to his knees, his hands reaching for his neck, before crumpling to the sidewalk. People screamed and the murderer used the panic to escape unnoticed. He was small and nondescript. Even now, John could barely describe him so it was no wonder The Man had missed him.

John could feel the dream fading into wakefulness when a glint caught his attention. The knife? John hurried closer. No, it was too small and seemed to have fallen out of The Man’s pocket into the spreading pool of blood. His heart thumping madly, John peered closer, fighting against wakefulness: a police badge with a warrant card by the name of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

* * *

  
  


John’s eyes snapped open and he reached for his notepad, writing down the time and the name. A police inspector! That made sense. It explained why he was running in the middle of the street, knocking people over, in search of a murderer carrying a large blade. And he had a name now, too. He would know if this man existed… Christ! What if The Man  _ did _ exist? What did that mean? What should he do? Well, no,it was pretty obvious what he  _ would  _ do. If The Man actually existed and if he was still alive, John would obviously do all he could to keep him that way, or all of this nonsense with The Dream would have been for nothing.

A quick Google search didn’t turn out what he’d expected. While there was a Detective Inspector Lestrade presently working at New Scotland Yard according to several news articles, the pictures of him looked nothing like The Man. Could there be two of them?

John snorted. Yeah, right. How likely would that be?

So did The Man steal the badge? Was he a pickpocket? A crook? Something worse? Or was he just holding onto it for some reason? So… a friend or a colleague?

Well, there was no help for it. No matter what, John would be in Dovehouse Street at half past five, everyday if he had to, but until then, he would spy on this Lestrade fellow in the hope he came across The Man.

* * *

  
  


One week later and still nothing. John had limped after the Inspector as much as he could but it was a difficult task when the busy man just sped off at random all over the city, and John was afraid he would get noticed anytime now. Lestrade was a Scotland yard detective inspector after all, he was bound to notice he had a stalker. Maybe he already had and was biding his time to have him arrested, but strangely enough, that didn’t scare John. After the first initial shock of finding there was some truth to The Dream, that it was actually anchored to the real world, John was finding some purpose in trying to solve it. There was a thrill to searching and finding the mysterious street, then following this police inspector around, which made him feel more alive than he’d been since… since Afghanistan. He didn’t feel as crippled and useless as before, and he knew that was why he was running around London after the pieces of his impossible dream. He couldn’t tell anyone though, least of all his therapist, who would have him locked up in a mental facility if she caught wind of it. But John had made his peace with the situation. Weird, crazy, occult, supernatural… he would take it all and run with it. Run until he found The Man.

 

John watched from a distance when Lestrade finally stumbled out of a pub, looking miserable after he stashed his phone in his pocket. Maybe the Scotland Yard inspector wasn’t all that observant after all, not now anyway, not given how pissed he was.

Feeling bold after a week of utter failure in making any sort of progress in the investigation of his Dream, John hurried forward and accidentally ‘bumped’ into the silver-haired detective who staggered to the left a couple of steps before John caught him by the arm and steadied him. He was a lot more tipsy than John had counted on.

“Hey, thanks mate,” Lestrade slurred with a chuckle, then proceeded to lean against him like the tower of Pisa. “Guess I’d better take a cab. Not sure where I left the car anyway.”

John smiled back. The inspector looked like a nice guy and just drunk enough to be talkative, yet not enough to be mopey and spout nothing but nonsense.

“I was just leaving too, mind if we share?” John asked as he hailed a passing cab.

“Sure, M’not going far anyway. I’ll sleep at the office,” he said, his speech only slightly impaired when he gave the address to the cabbie. “Don’t really fancy catching my wife screwing the PE teacher again.”

John winced in sympathy. Poor guy.

“Why not go to a friend’s place? Surely a sofa would be more comfortable than your office?”

Lestrade frowned and John could just see him rattling off a very short list of people he’d consider friends.

“Nope,” he answered. “I’ll just pull two chairs together. Won’t be the first time.”

John really pitied the guy. He seemed nice enough but had to deal with a demanding job, a cheating wife and a serious lack of friends. Not that John’s life was better by any stretch of the imagination with his lack of employment and friends, his phantom limp and occasional tremor, as well as the strange Dream that visited him every night.

“Here’s my stop,” Lestrade announced jovially, patting down his pockets in search of his wallet.

“Leave it, it’s on me,” John said amicably, waving him off as the inspector stumbled out of the cab. He’d gotten some information out of the poor man after all. The least he could do was offer him the short cab ride. John sighed when the cab rolled away. It appeared The Man was not a friend, or at least not a close friend of the inspector, so he really had no reason to be in possession of his police badge.

* * *

  
  


John woke up in a bad mood. He was no closer to discovering who The Man was and he just kept dying messily at his feet every night as if to spite him. When no other clues were forthcoming, John had tried touching The Man, yelling at him, demanding his name over and over again… but it was useless.

The Dream was starting to take a toll on John, too. It hadn’t been so bad at first. Just a swirl of colours and vague images. Then, they turned into the man running through the street, which was weird but okay, why not. Now, though, watching him die, over and over again every night… it was depressing.

But would he rather have nightmares of Afghanistan, of the soldiers blown up into pieces when they stepped in just the wrong spot, of his friends dying in his arms while he tried patching them up under heavy fire, of the searing pain he felt when he was shot himself and thought he was going to die under the hot sun… 

John couldn’t make up his mind: which was worse? Watching your friends die knowing there was nothing you could do to help them? Or watch a stranger die, knowing you might be able to stop it? It felt like Sophie’s choice, except the people on the one hand were already long dead, and the person on the other hand might not even exist...

Then, John remembered Alec, in the hospital bed next to his: the hollow-eyed soldier who was too afraid of his own nightmares to sleep. No, The Dream was still a much better alternative.

* * *

  
  


John had become a regular at Gail’s Bakery. He would go there at five o’clock for a snack, then walk around the corner just before five thirty rolled around, hoping and fearing at the same time to see his Dream come true. Because what would happen if his dream did come true and he couldn’t save The Man? John knew he’d feel guilty for the rest of his life if that ever came to pass. And then what? Would he start having “regular” nightmares? And he had no doubt what those nightmares would be about: the war and failing to save The Man... He’d be no better off than Alec. 

But what if he  _ did _ save The Man?

John finished his blueberry muffin, licked his fingers clean of sugar, then absent-mindedly raised his coat’s collar against the light drizzle that had began to fall. 

Probably nothing. He would save The Man and then life would go on, and the nightmares would begin. He’d just have to live with them and the satisfaction of having saved at least one person.

John was suddenly startled out of his thoughts by an angry shout down the street. He scanned the crowd, his heartbeat accelerating like crazy, a rush of adrenalin pumping through his veins when he saw a bike cut in front of bus 11 which honked in reprimand. John hurried forward, hearing more dismayed shouts from the crowd further ahead. Close, he was close, so close.

And there he was, The Man. Standing tall as he scanned the people around him. John’s whole body felt electrified at the sight of him, but he knew that any second now, The Man would spin around and… John leapt into action. He could just make out the outline of the small stranger with the knife sneaking out of the shadows, but John was running right at him at full speed. As a result, The Man did not turn around like he did in his Dream, too surprised to see a stranger barreling towards him for no apparent reason. Or so he must have thought. But John dived to his left and collided into the smaller body of the cutthroat who had raised his arm, apparently content with stabbing his foe in the back. A coward on top of a murderer. 

But not anymore. John pinned him down with ease, punching him in the nose hard enough to make him drop his blade on the pavement where it clattered ominously. It looked just as wickedly sharp and lethal in reality as it did in the Dream.

Satisfied the cutthroat was subdued for now, having maybe hit him a bit harder than necessary, John picked himself up and kicked the knife aside before dusting off his trousers, when he belatedly noticed he hadn’t entirely managed to miss the blade. There was a long gash across his left forearm that had sliced right through both his coat and his favourite oatmeal coloured jumper, grazing the skin underneath just enough for beads of blood to appear. Annoyed, John kicked the unconscious man in the stomach for good measure and was somewhat mollified when he groaned in pain, curling in on himself.

A blueish handkerchief appeared in his line of sight and he looked up to see The Man staring at him with an amused expression.

John froze. He’d never thought he’d actually meet The Man, let alone have to talk to him. What was he supposed to say, anyway? Nothing, he decided, and grabbed the proffered handkerchief, dabbing at the blood before deciding to just tie it tightly around his forearm and making a knot. Luckily, it wouldn’t even need a band aid by the looks of it and would be scab over by the time he got home.

The Man said nothing, not even a thank you, not that John wanted one, but it struck him as strange. Most anyone would think to thank the person who’d just saved them from a knife-wielding maniac, but maybe it was shock. Instead, the strange man turned to look at the cutthroat and John felt this was as good a time as any to slip off before someone started asking too many questions. John wasn’t all that good a liar, and the police were closing in by the sound of the approaching sirens.

It was only when John was on the bus, halfway home, that he realized he’d lost his cane along the way. He couldn’t even remember when he’d let go of it, but guessed it must have been when he’d started running. Running! John smiled like a kid on christmas morning. What did it matter now, anyway? He didn’t need his bloody cane. His leg didn’t hurt anymore.

  
  



	2. Accepting the Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you guys were so nice, I'm posting this chapter earlier than I had planned too :)

John had been apprehensive about sleep after he’d saved The Man from certain death. What if the nightmares of his time in Afghanistan started haunting him now, like they did other soldiers? John almost hoped The Dream would continue regardless. It wouldn’t be so hard watching The Man die over and over again every night now that he knew he’d saved him. It might be boring, but at least it wouldn’t be traumatizing. Or maybe he’d be lucky and he’d see himself saving The Man instead, but he didn’t hold his breath for such a break.

So John did the only thing he could think of, he put off his bedtime. He cleaned his wound first, which didn’t take much time at all: the gash was long but so shallow it didn’t even warrant a band-aid. Surprising, considering it came from such a large blade. John shoved his ruined coat and jumper in a dustbin bag because no amount of stitching would be able to save them, and he found the handkerchief he’d set aside, noticing for the first time the light blue piece of cotton was monogrammed, so he smoothed it out.

 

**SH**

 

John snorted. Now, really, who had monogrammed handkerchiefs nowadays? The Man must be incredibly posh, or strangely old-fashioned. Or maybe it wasn’t even his, and he had pinched it from someone like Lestrade with his police badge. Either way, John didn’t feel like dumping the handkerchief in the garbage with his ruined clothes, it didn't seem right, so he put it to soak for the night instead. He doubted the blood would completely come out, but he wanted to keep it anyway. Call him sentimental, but John wanted to keep it as a souvenir of is strange day.

He spent the rest of the evening and night occupying himself as best he could, cleaning out his small bedsit, browsing the internet, reading a book Harry had recommended but which he threw out the window after just one chapter, eating microwaved leftovers, doing the newspaper’s crossword- that, on second thought, had been a bad decision because John more often than not fell asleep racking his brain for a particular word. This time he was stuck on ‘Sturdy’, 6 letters across, but he had probably gotten the word ‘Cloudy’, 8 letters down wrong because nothing fit and he was trying to puzzle it out… when sleep claimed him.

* * *

  
  


The Dream had changed. John knew that much. It was as it had been in the beginning: a swirl of colours, blurry images, distorted sounds… it gave John motion sickness at times but he appreciated the change and didn’t wake up until late the next morning, feeling more refreshed than he had in the last few weeks, but afraid the cycle of strange dreams had not stopped upon saving The Man. However, all he could do for now was wait and see.

* * *

  
  


As he had feared, The Dream became clearer. John didn’t know what to do: he still had no idea what was happening to him, or why. His research had yielded absolutely nothing of interest and he had no one to turn to.

Then, a few weeks later, John knew he had to save The Man. Again. What was wrong with the bloke? Did he purposefully put his life in danger? Did he get a kick out of getting in mortal danger and just hoped for the best every time he was faced with a life or death situation? And, you had to admit this one was pretty stupid too: The Man was running - no surprise there - and got flattened by a truck as he burst out of a dark alleyway onto a busier street without slowing down or sparing a glance around.

John knew it had to be London, there was no reason it wouldn’t be and the dark street had  _ felt _ like London and  _ smelled _ like it too. Unfortunately, there weren’t so many clues around this time and the darkness wasn’t helping him any. In fact, he’d become so desperate for clues that he began sorting through the garbage littering the alleyway, hoping to find an address on some old letter or magazine. He cried out a heartfelt “Eureka!” when he finally found a large quantity of flattened delivery boxes belonging to a thai restaurant he knew.

All he had left to do was lurk at the end of the alleyway every night when it got dark to stop the idiotic man from splattering a truck’s radiator grill like some overgrown insect. After a week of staking out, John was getting exasperated at freezing his ass outside and eating thai every night. He should get paid for this since it looked like it was beoming a full time job, so maybe he’d dream of lottery numbers in his next Dream. John chuckled when he realized he was accepting The Dreams as something normal, they were a part of him now. He was even willing to admit they had made his life better somewhat, giving him a purpose, getting rid of his limp, keeping the nightmares at bay… John couldn’t actually think of a drawback to these strange dreams. Well, if you didn’t count freezing your ass off in the middle of the night in a smelly alleyway.

 

* * *

 

Ten days later, John ears perked up when he heard rapid footsteps fast approaching. He peered into the alleyway but from the lit street where he stood, it was pitch black. John looked into his street but saw no truck at either end. Strange. Then, he heard a scuffle in the alleyway and debated checking it out, when a rumble made itself known. The truck, and suddenly, a man he didn’t know bounded out of the alleyway. John didn’t try to stop him, he wasn’t his problem.

John braced himself and shot his good arm out the second The Man jumped out of the alleyway, pushing him back against the wall while the truck rumbled past them at an unreasonable speed, honking loudly. That  _ had _ been close. John was still fisting The Man’s coat, preventing him from moving and pinning him to the wall. He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the build up tension from his brush up with the speeding truck, before letting go of The Man.  _ He _ had his sharp gaze fixed on John, studying him. It was unnerving and John panicked, taking off without warning and running down the dark alley the two men had come from just minutes earlier. He should really plan an escape route in advance.

He could hear footsteps behind him, fast approaching. Fuck! The Man was much taller than him, he would be able to catch up without any problem. John would have to find a way to lose him. The tube station beckoned invitingly, but that would be as good as a dead end with his pursuer so close behind. A cab? A bus? Too predictable and, oonce again, The Man was too close, it was too risky.

Hide. Okay, hiding was good. He could do that. But where? He scanned the street as he ran and smirked when he saw a pub packed full with football supporters. He made a beeline for it, pushing people to get in, picking up a scarf here, a cap there and making it out the other side through the bathroom and into another alleyway, slowing his pace to a leisurely walk when he made it onto another busy street. He never looked back.

* * *

  
  


John was exhausted by the time he made it back, but he also felt exhilarated and a bit confused. Why did he run away? Sure, The Man was strange, never thanking him for saving his life, never saying a single word, in fact. Just staring at him with those clear blue eyes like he was seeing right through him.

Is that why he ran?

It was a useless thing to do, too. The Man was bound to catch him sooner or later. Unless John stopped dreaming of him, but he had an eery and unshakable feeling that it would never stop. And when The Man did eventually catch him, he would demand answers, John was certain of that too. Why wouldn’t he? Saving his life once could be a fluke...Twice? Not so much. He was bound to be curious and John doubted The Man would like the answers he had to give.

Could John evade him indefinitely then?

He had used The Man’s distraction the first time to slip away, and his surprise the second time to run off, but, if there was a third time, and let's be honest, John didn't doubt there would be a third time sooner or later because The Man was such a bloody trouble-magnet, then he would make sure not to let him go and get the answers out of him whether he wanted to or not. Just thinking about it made John’s heart hammer wildly in his chest. What could he possibly say? What would be more believable: the bizarre truth or a well crafted lie? That was the big question, but John doubted being truthful was an option. He didn't fancy spending the rest of his life in a loony bin, thank you very much.

So he would run, again and again, and hope for the best.

* * *

  
  


A blessed three weeks went by while the new Dream progressively unfolded but remained jumbled enough that John knew he didn’t have to worry about it yet. He wondered if The Man had gone on an extended holiday in the most boring, unpopulated, out of the way place on Earth.

But, eventually, The Dream did become clearer, and John had the full picture.

The Man wasn't running for once. He was standing in the middle of a crime scene judging by the yellow tape and flashing red and blue lights, talking to Inspector Detective Lestrade. Oh! So they did know each other after all. John wondered if Lestrade knew The Man had stolen his police badge. He must have, since The Man already had it in his possession in the First Dream and that had been weeks ago. Cops flashed their badges all the time, didn't they? At least, that's what they did on the telly. Maybe John could corner a drunk Lestrade again to ask him about it.

Suddenly, Sherlock moved to the side where a larger group of people were gathered: the curious and the journalists were held at bay by police officers and yellow tape, but The Man confidently walked over to an old woman who was sobbing. Next thing John knew, a shot rang through and the crowd screamed, running away in a panic or throwing themselves to the ground. All except The Man of course. That was the purpose of this dream, after all. The Man’s head had been hit, taking out part of his skull, blood and grey matter dripping down his face as he fell limply to the ground, the only eye he had left staring into nothingness.

 

John woke up and bent over the side of his bed, throwing up the little his stomach still contained. Bile, mostly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fell back down on his old threadbare pillow. Fucking hell, that had been disgusting, but worse was that one blue eye, usually so clear and calculating, that pierced right through him with that brilliant spark of intelligence and _knowing._ The Man's eyes positively vibrated with life, but in his dream the lone eye had just stared into nothingness. Murky. Dead.

Such a waste.

John sighed and got up to clean the mess he had made. He'd have to start looking for clues in the dream tomorrow. There seemed to be no logic in the delay between the blurry images, the clear picture and the realization of the dream. Well, he only had two dreams to go on but he wasn't about to take any chances when someone’s life was at stake.

He also had to find a way of intervening in the middle of a bloody crime scene crawling with coppers from bloody Scotland Yard without getting caught and that would take  _ a lot _ of thinking and planning ahead. It seemed damn near impossible, but he had to do it. John chuckled when he finished cleaning and headed for the shower. Right, easy peasy.

 

John had taken to writing down everything about his Dreams of The Man. It made things easier in the end, helped him sort through the sheer load of information to focus on the important parts. He'd have to remember to thank his therapist for the suggestion, although he wasn't technically using it for its intended purpose, it had turned out to be quite useful in the end.

John took out his battered notebook, dozens of pages were already scrawled through with places, dates, times, landmarks, events, description of people… even doodles  of faces and buildings. He wasn't an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it did help him puzzle out his Dream, so they were all messily laid out, picked apart and reorganized into a solution.

He turned to a new page and titled it "Plan D3", for dream number three. It could be useful if he needed to go back through his notes later on to have a semblance of organisation.

John had come up with a few ideas under the shower and would have to examine which was the best and which were unfeasible in the next Dreams.

 

1) Tackle The Man to the ground. 

Pros: Success guaranteed

Cons: Get arrested on the spot by The Man and/or Scotland Yard

 

2) Stop the shooter

Pros: Avoid The Man and Scotland Yard

Cons: Get shot myself

 

3) Create a diversion

Pros: Confuse the shooter, he may give up

Cons: He shoots anyway or at a later date

 

Maybe if John created a diversion first and then tackled The Man to the ground? John scratched his head. There were too many variables, too many possible outcomes to consider, but it was a start anyway. After a moment's hesitation, he added:

 

4) Warn Scotland Yard, anonymous tip off about the shooter

Pros: I don’t have to intervene directly

Cons: The cops are incompetent and/or don’t believe me

 

Maybe he should just kidnap The Man and keep him from getting himself in a perilous situation ever again. Keep him locked up in his closet or something. John laughed and closed his notebook. One thing was for certain, he wasn’t ever bored anymore.

* * *

  
  


John had briefly wondered that first day after the new Dream if maybe he was supposed to save whoever had died on the crime scene too, but was relieved - and promptly felt guilty about it - when it turned out to be just a severed head that had been dumped there. He had no leads on the head’s identity, where its owner had been killed or even when, so he gave it up. That was not his mission, after all. For John, it was always The Man.

And tonight, after ten days of studying the Dream, John would save him again. He had arrived well before anyone else, except the head. God only knew how long that thing had been sitting there before anyone noticed. But, while John watched the scene from his vantage point, with the head positioned in a clear space surrounded by taller, run down buildings that were mostly empty, he couldn’t help but feel like this was a trap, a bit like a giant mousetrap. The severed head being the bait, The Man being the prey of choice and the shooter being the hunter.

Finally, an old woman screamed her head off and disappeared, wailing and gesticulating wildly, returning only when police cars arrived. She looked like the old lady The Man had been talking to before he got his head blown off. John looked towards where he thought the shooter would be stationed but he wasn’t there yet, but neither was The Man, so he wasn’t worried. After a lot of hesitation, John had decided to combine his idea number 2 and 4, in that order. Take out the shooter and warn Scotland Yard. It seemed like the less risky option, considering the peculiar circumstances, for both The Man’s life, and for his own freedom.

More police arrived in a flurry of lights and sirens, John’s cue to be sharp and steady. Luckily, he was a fair shot, and he couldn't hold back his grin when his shooter finally appeared, just where he thought he would in the building facing his, just one floor down. Perfect. The shot would be easy. John lowered his rifle and adjusted his aim through the sights. It had taken a favour from an old acquaintance to get his hands on such a weapon, something John hated to do, but felt it had been well worth it when he stared down the barrel of the tranquilizing rifle he’d borrowed from a former veterinarian.

The Man arrived on the crime scene next, but John ignored him because he had no intention to let events unfold more than he had to. All he had needed was for the shooter to arrive and set up, so the police could arrest him. John pressed the trigger, the tranquilising dart landing right into the other shooter’s buttocks, and he observed, satisfied when the other man panicked, tried to pull it out and suddenly lumped forward. He’d be out for several hours, John had made sure of that. He glanced at The Man. He was still talking to Lestrade, alive and whole, blissfully unaware of what had happened. Mission accomplished.

Making quick work of taking the rifle apart, John put it away in a non-descript bag and left the building without anyone taking notice, a cap pulled low over his face. There was a phone booth not far, and he punched in Lestrade’s number - it had been ridiculously easy to find thanks to his Dream. He just hoped the inspector would pick up, even though he was busy at a crime scene.

“Lestrade,” the man growled. John decided he liked him better when he was drunk and giddy.

“You’ll find a man in the building facing you, third floor, the flat with the open window. He’s armed but sleeping,” John said succinctly, trying and probably failing, to modify his voice so it sounded deeper.

“Who is this? How did you get my number?” Lestrade asked before talking to someone next to him and sighing before he added: “Who was his target?” as if he didn’t even know why he was asking the question.

“The man next to you,” John answered, hoping The Man was still near Lestrade and that he might get some useful information out of Lestrade this time around. “The tall one with the big coat and curly hair.”

“Who? Sherlock?” Lestrade asked and John hung up. 

He had a name and that was probably all he would get out of the Detective Inspector for now. Besides, he really shouldn’t be lingering around, so close to the crime scene teaming with cops. He was already behind schedule. Taking in his surroundings to make sure no one was watching, John hurried down the street that would take him to a bus stop.

“John!” Someone shouted, the voice strong and deep.

John froze on the spot. Damnit. How? How did he know his name? John glanced behind him and saw that it was indeed The Man. He had finally heard his voice in the last dream and would recognize it anywhere. Fortunately, he was too far away and would never catch up with him, not this time, so John waved cheekily at him and sprinted off. Fuck the bus stop, he’d have to run all the way to a tube station and get lost in the crowd, taking detours to make sure he wasn't followed before returning home. On his way, John couldn't shake off the feeling he was being watched, but try as he might, he couldn’t see The Man, cops or anyone suspicious looking his way. It had just been a close call, that was all. He was being a tiny bit paranoid because of the adrenalin rush. Still, the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on end, making him feel uneasy when he lost himself in the bustling crowd of central London.

* * *

  
  


John only let his guard down once the door to his bedsit was shut and bolted. He was stilll pumped up on adrenalin, a happy sort of giddiness taking over him to have succeeded once more. Try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of the grin on his face. Damn, he needed to calm down or burn off all this extra energy or he’d never manage to settle down to research the name ‘Sherlock’ or even get to sleep. He paced his bedsit like a caged lion and had just decided to go off for a run, having not done so since being shot in Afghanistan, when someone knocked on his door. John wasn’t expecting any visitors but he checked his phone to see if Harry had sent him a message telling him otherwise. Nothing.

“I know you’re in there,” came a deep voice.

John broke out in a cold sweat. It was The Man.  _ At his door _ ! Did he bring the cops with him? Could he be arrested for having shot someone with a tranquiliser dart? Even if that someone had been planning to murder someone else? John remained rooted to the spot in the small kitchenette, holding his breath and staying as immobile as he could, hoping his unwanted visitor would take the hint and leave.

“I’ll just pick the lock if you don’t let me in,” his visitor continued, then sighed dramatically. “Tedious.”

John was amused, despite his better judgement, and he was now certain it was only The Man he would find behind his door. No cops. The police would have kicked his door in by now, they wouldn’t have the courtesy to pick the lock. Knowing this day would come anyway, and preferring their meeting to happen somewhere discreet and not in public, over a dead body or surrounded by policemen, John edged slowly towards the door. 

Where could he go anyway? What else could he do? This meeting was inevitable. His bedsit had exactly one exit, and The Man was standing behind it. It had been a stupid error on his part, John saw that now, but he’d never really expected The Man to be able to follow him home. How the blazes had he managed  _ that _ ?

John was at the door now, he raised his shaking hand, cursing his heart for thumping so hard it hurt, and he pulled the bolt back, taking a final, steadying breath before pulling the door open. The Man smiled widely at him. It was a strange expression, he’d never done that before in his Dreams, or even aftet John had saved him.

“John,” he greeted him as if they were lifelong friends.

John stepped to the side to let him in, feeling like his knees might buckle. How he could have nerves of steel when going against murderers, but be a total wreck when facing The Man was a mystery even to him.

_ Don’t show weakness, _ he berated himself.

“Sherlock,” John replied, hoping that was indeed his name. “You’ll have to tell me how you found out my name,’ John frowned. “And my place while you’re at it.”

The Man nodded, still smiling as he looked around John’s small, almost empty, bedsit with that clear, calculating gaze of his.

“Not what I expected,” he concluded, returning his gaze to John, who shifted uncomfortably. “But  you’re always so unpredictable, aren’t you?”

John shrugged. he thought he was actually quite predictable most of the time, boring even, except for the strange nature of the dreams that had led him to the very man standing before him.

“So how do you do it?” Sherlock asked just as suddenly, the question John had dreaded hearing from him feeling like a slap across the face.

John found himself rooted to the place, mute while he tried to think of how to best answer it, his jaw working open once or twice but no sound making it out.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them. “Not good? I’ve been told my social skills could be better.”

“Maybe some tea first, yeah?” John mumbled, glad his vocal ability had returned just in time to play the gracious host.

The man nodded and took one of the two rickety chairs that furnished the poor excuse of a kitchen.

“So…” John said, his fingers twitching as he reached for the kettle. “Sherlock? That’s your real name? It’s a bit unusual.”

“Uhm? Yes. Sherlock Holmes. I thought you’d know that.”

John shrugged again, not sure why he was stalling telling The Man… Sherlock, about The Dreams. They concerned him as much as they did John, all things considered. But what if he didn’t believe him? What if he called him a liar or a freak, and left? Avoiding John and keeping him from saving him the next time he had a Dream.

“And how did you find out my name? Here I thought I’d been pretty careful but you already knew it on our third… erm… meeting.”

Sherlock’s whole face became animated when he told John about his search for the man who kept jumping to his rescue. He’d put the first occurrence to mere happenstance: a good samaritan who had seen a threat and neutralized it before disappearing. But then, he was saved again  _ by the same man _ ! And the Universe is rarely so lazy as to allow such coincidences, so he had set out to find the man in question. It had taken some time but a girl working at a bakery near the first meeting had remembered him as a former regular, until the incident happened, and she remembered his name was John. Same thing for a Thai restaurant near the second incident. Unfortunately, that was all he had to go by. One name, and a common one at that: John.

“I also knew you were a soldier, recently returned from the front, most likely from Afghanistan or Iraq,” Sherlock added, missing John’s confused expression. “But do you know how many Johns are enrolled? Too many. I’ve started going through the files but it’s so dull. It’s much more exciting catching you this way.”

“Err… Sorry, but how in the world could you know I was a soldier back from Afghanistan?” John blurted out.

“Oh, so it was Afghanistan. Good to know. To answer your question, you hold yourself like a soldier and there’s the haircut too,” Sherlock explained while John self-consciously patted down his hair, wondering what was wrong with it. “No to mention the moves you used to subdue the man who tried to stab me, and the shot you took tonight. Your face and hands are tanned, but not above your wrist, which was obvious to see when your whole forearm was exposed after the first incident, so you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing and you always favour your right side even though you are left-handed which leads me to think you have been wounded in action, the left shoulder in all likelihood, and it explains your presence in this...place. Discharged from the army with a small pension. Soldier wounded in action in a sunny country: Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John stared at Sherlock, completely gobsmacked, while the other man stared down at his tea, fiddling with the spoon.

“That was amazing! Bloody fantastic!” John finally exclaimed. “How can you know all that? Does it work on anybody? What else can you tell?”

Sherlock looked up, trying to hold back a full fledged grin by the looks of it, and he gave him other examples: deducing more about John’s life from his phone, his flat, his shoes… it was a completely novel and fascinating experience for John. It was like Sherlock had a kind of superpower, and John finally understood why he had to save him over and over again. Sherlock was precious, a genius, one of a kind. A mind like his shouldn’t go to waste, it should be used to do great things, and John would make sure it continued that way, protecting him from petty knife wielders, speeding trucks and vicious sharp-shooters until his last breath if he had to.

“Incredible,” John said. “Extraordinary, really.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled again as he tried not to smile too broadly. John had never seen someone so blatantly failing at hiding a smile. It was as if the man had been starved for compliments, which was strange, given he was some kind of genius.

“So what do you do? Work for the police?” John asked, but Sherlock snorted.

“No! God, no. That would be atrocious. I’m a consulting detective.”

“Oh,” John replied as he racked his mind, but the closer he could come up with was a private detective. “Never heard of the job.”

“That’s quite normal, I invented the position.”

John chuckled. There seemed to be a trend here: Sherlock Holmes just had to be different in every way. His chuckle turned into a laugh which started infecting Sherlock and the two had a hard time not setting each other off to return to their more serious discussion. Sherlock explaining what he did for a living and why he was chasing criminals all over London. It made much more sense now, except the part where Sherlock had stolen Lestrade’s police badge, but John would come back to that later, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

“Why are you unemployed?” Sherlock asked next, making John grimace. “You’ve been back for a while now.”

This was it. John should start confiding in Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t been holding back, answering without complaint or hesitation all of John’s many questions about his deductive abilities and job, while John hadn’t even answered the single most important question that had brought Sherlock here in the first place. It was only right that John started giving Sherlock the answers he wanted and hope for the best.

“Believe it or not, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep his tone light and jovial like it had been for the last couple of hours. “But keeping you alive is a full time job.”

John held his breath while he watched Sherlock’s facial expression change: a bit of surprise, satisfaction and finally puzzlement.

“Has there been more than these three times?” he asked.

John shook his head.

“No, ‘just’ the three, but it’s difficult to find the right time and place. That’s what takes up most of my time.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened, clearly unsatisfied by the vague answer, but John didn’t know how to explain his Dreams. There was so much to say. Should he just blurt everything out? But that would take ages and even more time to answer all of the questions Sherlock would undoubtedly have, and John was knackered now that the adrenaline had worn off. He wanted his bed. He  _ needed _ his bed. And his Dream. He wanted to make sure Sherlock was safe for now.

A yawn escaped John at the thought of his bed and he knocked over his notebook from the clutter of old newspapers and books left on the table. His notebook! Of course! He picked it back up and handed it to Sherlock.

“Here, read this. It’s a bit messy. I hadn’t actually planned on anyone else reading it, but you’re smart, you’ll get the gist of it. Then,” John took in a deep breath to steady himself. “You can either return it to me by post, or come back to discuss it with me, and I promise I’ll answer all your questions this time. Your choice.”

Sherlock looked very puzzled now, and a bit excited because now that John knew him better, he understood Sherlock couldn’t resist a mystery, especially not one that he was a part of. He carefully pocketed the notebook, as if it was something precious and not a low price everyday item from Tesco’s, then bid John goodnight, promising he would be in touch.

John hoped he would, but once he opened that notebook and started reading about prophetic dreams, he might just change his mind.

 


	3. Living the Dream

John woke up the next morning with a smile. The danger was temporarily gone. The Dream of Sherlock getting half his head blown off having been replaced by a new kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that made no sense whatsoever. It was a bit like a modern art exhibit, interesting but completely nonsensical.

Then his smile dropped when he remembered giving Sherlock his notebook. In hindsight, that may not have been his smartest move, because now, John had no clue how Sherlock would react and he’d be on edge until he heard from the man again. John had liked talking to Sherlock, had been completely engrossed by his stories as a consulting detective and the way he could deduce anything from little details. He had reveled in the easy camaraderie that he missed so much from his days as a soldier when everything had been just peachy - if you discounted the scorching heat, the damned dust that got everywhere and the occasional skirmishes.

John sighed. It was not use mulling it over, he would just have to wait and see. As usual. That could be his new moto: “John Watson, Wait & See”. He put the kettle on, then turned the telly on full blast, hoping it would help him not think about the multitude of ways Sherlock could react badly to his notebook, but he was immediately interrupted by a knock on his door. Sherlock? Even if he’d hoped he would come back, he hadn’t imagined it would be this soon. In not time though, he had the door open, deflating a bit when he was faced with a homeless bloke. He didn’t know they did door to door begging now.

“John Watson?” the young man asked.

“Yes?” John answered with a frown.

“Delivery from Sherlock Holmes,” he said and dropped a heavy, leather bound book in his hands before scuttling off without another word or backwards glance. 

John looked down the hallway but the homeless man had disappeared around the corner. Weird. Since when were the homeless employed as delivery boys? Or maybe the young man wasn't homeless, but just had terrible hygiene and a bad dress sense. Given his dreams, John had come to accept the strange without a second thought, so he shrugged and closed his door to inspect the book. No apparent title. He opened it but the pages were blank too, a journal then. A white scrap of paper that had been trapped between the pages fluttered down to the floor.

 

_ I never thanked you, _ it read.  _ Consider it done. SH _

 

John chuckled because, true to character, he wasn’t technically saying thank you, but the sentiment was there. He lay the new journal on the kitchen table. It was of much better quality than his Tesco notebook, but that would be like comparing a four years old’s crayon drawing to a Van Gogh painting. John brushed his hand against the smooth, creamy pages, imagining how much nicer it would be to write in this journal than his notebook. Did that mean Sherlock had read it already? And did this gift mean Sherlock believed him and would be staying in touch? Or was it some kind of parting gift? John closed the journal after he'd safely tucked Sherlock’s note in the middle of it for safekeeping. 

 

One hour later, he received a text from Sherlock. John wondered if the man had deduced his phone number from the pattern of his knitted jumper or some other equally astounding detail, or if he’d just snooped around while John had been making tea. Both seemed equally possible at this point.

 

_ Meet me at 221B Baker Street at earlier convenience. SH _

 

John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Sherlock still wanted to see him, despite his notebook and the crazy secret it contained. Being already dressed, fed and a new entry for the fourth dream filled in his new journal, John texted back:

 

_ On my way. JW _

 

Then, he saved Sherlock’s number in his contacts.

* * *

  
  


John took a cab. He didn’t really have the money for such a luxury, but he wanted to meet Sherlock as soon as possible and it would save him the trouble of finding out how to get there. 221B Baker Street turned out to be a small building with a little café at ground level. John quickly spotted Sherlock waiting for him on the pavement, pacing back and forth. He looked very agitated but broke into a smile when he saw him.

John glanced nervously at the café. If Sherlock wanted to talk about his notebook, he would have preferred a more discreet location, but Sherlock steered him towards the imposing door of the building instead.

“So, what are we doing here?” John asked, as they paused in front of the door.

“Just visiting,” Sherlock replied, taking out a key to open the door.

“This is your place,” John accused, pointing at his key. “Even I can deduce that much. I may not ‘observe’ like you, but I’m not blind either, or do you take me for that much of a - what did you call that forensics guy? - a dim-witted moron who can’t tell his arse from his elbow?”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Oh, no. Anything but,” he replied, leading the way up the first flight of stairs.

John had the uncanny urge to count the number of steps on his way, just in case Sherlock quizzed him about it later. The man was turning him into a real nutcase. 

“So? What do you think?” Sherlock asked after he flung open the door at the top of the stairs.

John walked around the living room, bigger than his whole bedsit put together, but dusty and cluttered, in a good way. It felt lived in, and homey, in its own strange way, and despite the oddities lying around everywhere.

“It’s...nice?” John answered, not sure why Sherlock had asked. He hadn’t figured him out to be one who fished for compliments so he had no idea what he was getting at.

“So you’ll move in?” Sherlock asked, bouncing eagerly on his feet, unable to contain his excitement. It was endearing, this over-enthusiastic side of the man he was seeing for the first time.

“I’m sorry, what?” John blurted out, certain he must have misunderstood.

“Think about it, John,” Sherlock urged, making wild gestures with his long arms and big hands. “It’s perfect.  _ I  _ need a flatmate,  _ you  _ definitely need a new place. And this way, it’ll be easier for you to keep tabs on me. I’m sure it’ll save you  _ a lot _ of time.”

John blinked. It did make a lot of sense if he thought about it. He’d always know what Sherlock was about, what he was working on, who he was after... He could even help him figure out his Dreams, especially the when and where, and be forewarned about it. Maybe John wouldn't even have to tackle would-be murderers to save Sherlock, not alone at least.

“But... Wait! This means you actually  _ believe _ me?” John asked, not daring to believe it. “About the… you know?”

John blushed, too embarrassed to say it out loud. How could Sherlock just accept it so easily?

“Your dreams?” Sherlock asked, seemingly amused at John’s discomfort. “I think visions would be a more apt description, but yes, I do believe that’s the most likely solution to what’s been happening. It explains why you’re always in the right place, at the right time, saving my life, but asking nothing in return, not even attempting to ingratiate yourself to me. I’m sure if I hadn’t hunted you down, you would have continued to remain in the shadows. Am I right?”

John nodded dumbly.

“There is actually a more down to earth solution - can you guess?” Sherlock asked. “One that doesn’t require my needing to adjust to a... paranormal component.”

John’s eyebrows drew down as he thought about it. He would have prefered Sherlock ask him how many steps there were in the staircase after all since he knew the answer to that and didn’t want to pass for an idiot. But what was it he had mentioned earlier about ‘ingratiating himself to him’... had people tried that before? Getting close to Sherlock to use his rare deductive skills maybe? John could see the appeal, but how could he manage that? It took him a few more minutes to come up with an idea.

“If all of this was planned?” John ventured, not sure how to formulate it. “I mean… if everything was an elaborate plot? Fake murder attempts against you with someone swooping in at just the last minute to save the day, purposefully disappearing to catch your attention? And a false notebook too, obviously, to make it seem more real? But… well… that would take a hell of a lot of planning, wouldn’t it? Men and money… and someone very clever behind it all. Is that it? The more down-to-earth solution? Because it sounds pretty crazy, even to me.”

But Sherlock was smiling.

“I knew you’d get it,” he said and that sounded almost like praise coming from him.

“You did point me in the right direction,” John replied, trying not to sound too pleased. “But why did you rule that out? Given these two solutions, I guess most anyone would pick elaborate conspiracy over prophetic dreams.”

“Because of you,” Sherlock said simply, his inquisitive eyes boring into his as if he could see everything there was to know about John Watson, as if he was an open book.

John had the ridiculous urge to cover himself with his hands. He shook his head, breaking the eye contact which had him so completely mesmerized, and wondered if Sherlock was any good at hypnotizing people.

“I don’t understand,” John breathe out.

“I can read people, John, and I know you’re not lying. I’d wager you’re not any good at it, since you had difficulties simply evading questions,” Sherlock smirked. “It would take an exceptional actor to fool me, so, if you’re not part of the ‘elaborate plot’, that means there isn’t one. And once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock make a gesture like a magician would make at the end of a magic trick,  _ ta-da,  _ and John would have liked nothing better than to argue with him, but he was right, wasn’t he?

“Brilliant, as usual,” John blurted and he could actually  _ see _ Sherlock preen under the compliment. It never got old. “So you’re serious? About having me as a flatmate?”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not in the habit of saying words I don’t mean. That would be a terrible waste of time. But I imagine I should mention I’m not that good of a flatmate. The last one only lasted two weeks, in fact.”

“What did you do? Deduce the hell out of him?” John could see how that could be embarrassing.

Sherlock grinned toothily, looking like a malevolent dragon, but shook his head.

“Look in the fridge,” he instructed, then crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for John to do as he'd asked.

So he did. John had a feeling he’d be doing that a lot, just blindly obeying the man. He walked into the kitchen, taking in the abysmal mess it was in, and he briefly wondered how Sherlock managed to cook for himself. Standing before the fridge, John took a deep breath, expecting the worse, and opened the door.

“Jesus! Is that a  _ lung _ !” John cried out, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “And why the hell do you have a bowl of ears in here? Human ears! And are those- Oh, for God’s sake!”

John banged the fridge door shut and returned to the living-room.

“Okay, that was pretty gross, not to mention unsanitary, so I can sort of understand why your previous flatmate left. But you should really be more careful about cross-contamination. Keep your body-parts in the lowest part of the fridge and well wrapped maybe? It's a wonder you don't get sick all the time.”

“If I do that, will you move in with me?” Sherlock bargained, puppy-eyed, and how was John supposed to resist that?

John looked around, the flat was quite large and right in the middle of London, close to Regent Park he’d noted. Prime estate which had to cost a fortune.

“I’d love to, Sherlock, but I really don’t think I can afford it. I can barely afford where I live now and… well, you’ve seen the place.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a flat line for just a second.

“The landlady owes me a favour, a big favour, and she let’s me live here for next to nothing,” he explained carefully, as if he was gauging John’s reaction with every word. “And you’ve practically put you life on hold, because of me...”

“Because of the Dreams,” John corrected. He didn’t want Sherlock to have some misplaced guilt.

“ _ For _ me, then. Protecting me takes up all of your time,” Sherlock said and had to put a hand up to silence John before he protested again. “It does. There’s no point denying it, it’s a fact, and because of it, you’re still unemployed, and alone. No friends, no romantic partners, and your relationship with your brother is frankly laughable.”

John tried not to grin at Sherlock’s error, especially when it was said with such conviction. It was a first, as far as John was concerned, and maybe he’d point it out to Sherlock one day, or invite Harry over and just watch his face crumple with confusion. Well... he was really considering moving in, wasn’t he?

“You’re acting as a bodyguard would, John, a very efficient and dedicated one at that, and I should probably pay you for your continued service, but you wouldn’t accept it, would you? You’re too ‘honorable’ to accept money from me. So, at the very least, let me give you the spare room. It’s only gathering dust anyway.”

John was torn. On the one hand, it felt like he was accepting charity from Sherlock, but on the other, he had a spare room and was incapable of keeping a flatmate for any significant amount of time. This could work out. He could protect Sherlock better this way. He only had to swallow his pride.

“You’re sure you can afford this place?” John asked to give Sherlock one last chance to back out of the arrangement.

Sherlock made a strange snorting sound that John didn’t know how to interpret.

“I already am, aren’t I?”

John grinned.

“All right, then. It’s decided. But I  _ will _ pay rent whenever I get a job, and I’ll help with the bills in the meantime.”

They shook hands to seal the deal. John was surprised that Sherlock was as happy with their agreement as he was, but maybe the other man was just relieved to know John would always be around to save him, instead of hoping he would show up at critical times. 

Sherlock showed him around the flat and to the spare room which was one flight of stair up, giving him even more privacy if he needed it. It was better than anything John had hoped for and once he got the flat back under some semblance of order, by clearing all the empty teacups littering the place for starters, it would look even better.

But for now, Sherlock was anxious to discuss the notebook and his previous Dreams as well as the new one that had started. He seemed fascinated by the Dreams, maybe because it was something he couldn’t shove under his microscope to coax answers out of -although he had insisted John give him a blood sample, ‘just to check’. For what, John wasn’t sure. That he wasn’t mutant of some kind? An alien?

“I’ve been reading a lot,” Sherlock said and John pointedly glanced at his bookshelf and the various piles of books towering in front of it.

“Oh,  _ really? _ ” he asked and chuckled, but Sherlock shushed him with a playful swipe at his shoulder, the good one fortunately.

“Yes,” Sherlock growled. “You can’t be the first person with such an ability and after some research, I found numerous references over the centuries of protectors, guardian angels, good samaritans, champions, guardian spirits and more, all over the world, who all had a common goal which was to relentlessly protect a sole person over the course of their life. Some of these also mentioned the protector had been reborn before taking up the role. The texts I found weren’t very specific about this, but… ”

Sherlock leaned closer, peering into his eyes once more.

“Tell me, John Watson, did you die in Afghanistan?”

John paled. Had he? He had prayed not to die when he’d felt his blood pour out of him under the blinding sun. He had begged whatever God was willing to listen to spare him, and he had come through it all with a limp, an injured shoulder and The Dreams. But had he died? Flatlined before being shocked back into existence? John didn’t know, hadn’t wanted to know, and he told Sherlock as much.

“I have my medical file in my stuff somewhere, if you want,” he offered, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t be satisfied until he had solved the mystery. Upon his discharge, John had been given a fat folder of his military record, medical file, honourable discharge certificate and whatever other paper they felt necessary to include, but John had simply stuffed it at the bottom of his pack and left it there to rot with the other memories of the war he never wanted to revisit.

“Good. I could have gotten it through other means, but this will save me having to call in a favour. I thought it might be better to ask you first, too” Sherlock added uncertainly. “Right?”

John smiled reassuringly. Sherlock was not very good at normal human interactions judging by the stories he’d told him yesterday.

“Yes, Sherlock, it’s better to ask first. Do you know someone in the army who could have procured you my file? It’s supposed to be private, you know?”

“Better than that,” Sherlock replied. “You might want to watch out for my brother, by the way. Now that you’re my flatmate, he’s probably going to kidnap you to have a ‘heart to heart’ discussion.” Sherlock muttered. “But be careful. He might not look it, and despite what he might say, he  _ is _ the British Government, and he absolutely cannot know about your ability or he’ll have you locked away in a lab somewhere with mad scientists poking at you to find out what makes you tick.”

John blinked at the sudden dump of information. That was a lot to take in and he had too many questions rushing forward and tripping his tongue, so he latched onto the most surprising.

“Your brother  _ is _ the British Government?”

“As good as.”

Okay, that was actually worrying. John certainly didn’t want anyone taking a particular interest in him, least of all the British Government personified. John slowly breathed in, and out, trying to slow his racing heart, then looked back up at Sherlock with a resolute expression. He could do this. He’d been to Afghanistan, tackled a knife-wielding maniac in the middle of a busy street, taken out a sniper in the middle of a crime scene surrounded by Scotland Yard… Surely, facing Sherlock’s brother would be a picnic in comparison.

“Anything else I need to know?” John asked, not really expecting anything, but Sherlock looked uncomfortable and hesitant. “It’s okay. Don’t tell me if it’s something I don’t need to know. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Sherlock’s shoulders dropped a little, tension easing out of him. So he was hiding something. Maybe it was just something embarrassing. John had plenty of embarrassing secrets he’d rather Sherlock didn’t know so he could sympathize.

“So… a guardian angel, eh?” John asked to change the topic, the corners of his lips quivering up. “Should I purchase some wings or a halo or something?”

“That would be highly impractical,” Sherlock answered so seriously, John couldn’t help but laugh. He’d thought he wasn’t bored before with his mission to rescue The Man, but living with Sherlock was turning out to be even more entertaining.

* * *

  
  


The next day, John had officially moved in. He didn’t have a lot of stuff to move around. In fact, everything fit in a couple of bags, which was a bit pathetic, but thankfully, Sherlock did not comment on it and welcomed him back.

John then went on a cleaning spree, much to Sherlock’s disgust and the landlady’s delight. Mrs Hudson was a sweet old lady who liked complaining about every little thing, including buttons, crumbs and dust, but she made the best scones John had eaten in a while, and he happily accepted her open invitation to tea.

On the second day, John handed Sherlock the medical transcript of his hospital file after he’d been shot,  granting him an honourable discharge and a one-way ticket back home. Nothing exceptional: a bullet to the shoulder that had shattered his bones, lots of scarring tissue, residual tremor, nerve damage and a psychosomatic limp… but as it turned out, he  _ had  _ flatlined, just as Sherlock had thought, which seemed to give credit to his theory about guardian angels. John didn’t know what to think. As a doctor, he knew it was just a matter of restarting a specific organ, the heart, but if there was more to a human body than flesh, blood and bones... a soul… Where did it go when the body could no longer host it? Honestly, John had no recollection of the time between him being shot and waking up in the hospital. He didn’t like thinking about it, so he dropped the subject and thankfully, so did Sherlock.

After just a week of moving into 221B Baker Street, John felt completely at home and he couldn’t understand why Sherlock had had so much trouble keeping flatmates in the past. He could be a bit quiet at times, but so was John, and Sherlock had even kept his end of the bargain by carefully storing his spare body-parts far from their actual food and he went the extra mile by making sure his strange experiments did not spread all over the place like they had obviously done when he first visited. Sherlock could be charming when he wanted, too, especially when he played his violin, so John decided his former flatmates must have been idiots.

* * *

  
  


“John? John! Wake up!”

John flinched and rolled off the sofa, landing on the hard floor with a grunt. He glared at Sherlock who looked entirely too amused.

“You’re lucky I don’t sleep with a gun on me,” he muttered.

“Oh, I know you keep it in your bedside table. Besides, you would have dreamed about killing me and prevented yourself from doing so.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Stop being such a smart-ass, Sherlock…” John said, dusting himself off with a glance at the clock. It was barely eight o’clock. He must have drifted off to sleep listening to Sherlock play and hadn’t even had his dream yet. “What did you want? I’m  _ assuming _ it’s important.”

“That depends. Fancy accompanying me to a crime scene? It sounds promising.”

John stared at him. Sherlock really wanted him to tag along? John had come to understand his consulting job was everything to him. He lived for his work, the same way John lived for his Dreams, so he was a bit surprised he’d want him there, but John nodded and they were sitting in a cab a few minutes later, Sherlock filling him in on what he knew.

“You know the suicides I told you about?” Sherlock said, waiting for John’s nod. “They’re finally calling me in on it. Apparently, the last victim left a message. Oh, this is so exciting!”

Sherlock was rubbing his hands together in anticipation, sitting on the edge of the seat and his legs bouncing up and down. He really was getting off on this, but who was John to judge? He got off on saving Sherlock by taking out his foes. To each his own.

 

“Who’s this?” The policewoman who had called Sherlock a freak asked when she spotted John trailing behind him.

“My bodyguard,” Sherlock answered without missing a beat, and it was worth it just to see the startled expression on her face when she looked him up and down, unimpressed.

“You’ve  _ got _ to be kidding me,” she sneered. 

She had to be the most disagreeable person John had ever met, and his drill sergeants had been fucking pains in the arse. No wonder Sherlock always ranted about the people he had to work with at Scotland Yard. John gave her his most manic smile, full of teeth but lacking any trace of humour, and she recoiled slightly.

“I assure you I’m quite capable. It’ll only take me ten seconds to sprain your wrist if you’d care for a demonstration?” John asked, the same way he would offer tea to a guest.

Sherlock seemed amused by John's polite threat, but the woman… not so much. She probably wouldn’t let him access the crime scene now, just out of spite. She opened her mouth, about to say something a bit not good judging by her pinched expression, but another person joined their little party and at the sight of him, John wished he could hide behind Sherlock.

“Sherlock! What’s the holdup?” Detective Inspector Lestrade asked. “I don’t have all night, you know? Who’s he?”

Lestrade stared at John, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“No!” John replied. Damn... Too quickly. Too categoric. Way to be suspicious.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in surprise. John had forgotten to tell him about catching a drunk Lestrade out of a pub to worm information out of him. Lestrade stared at him suspiciously.

“I mean, I just have one of those faces, you know…” John added vaguely.

“The freak says he’s his bodyguard,” the woman scoffed.

“His bodyguard?” Lestrade said derisively. “Oh, never mind. Come on, you two. I’m running late.”

They followed the inspector to an abandoned, run down building and up several flights of stairs where a woman in a pink coat lay face down on dirty floorboards. Sherlock started hovering over her, seeing things only he could interpret and whipping out his magnifying glass, his phone, barking at a man and closing the door in his face before spewing out a stream of ‘obvious’ deductions while John had a hard time not blurting out how brilliant he was.

“How long did you say she’s been dead?” Sherlock asked.

“Why don’t you ask Anderson,” Lestrade groused, pointing at the closed door while John strode forward doing a quick examination and giving his best estimate.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked, frowning and observing John as closely as he had the pink lady. “I missed something. What did I miss?”

“I’m a doctor, you idiot,” John answered fondly, feeling like snickering at Sherlock's gobsmacked expression, but holding it in. 

Snickering next to a dead body just didn’t seem right. John had wondered how long it would take Sherlock to find out what John’s real calling was. Did he really think he was just a foot soldier? Sure, there was nothing to indicate he was a doctor. He didn’t practice, had stored all his medical books in Harry’s attic when he left for his first tour, and the subject just never came up, but, since Sherlock seemed to know everything about everyone, John had been biding his time until Sherlock found out from some weird, unexpected detail. He was almost disappointed having to confess it out loud, although Sherlock’s befuddled expression was rather funny.

“You are?” Sherlock asked. “How did I miss that?”

“How could you not know that?” Lestrade exclaimed. “Jesus, Sherlock! Do you just pick up random strangers off the street to bring them on crime scenes, now? This is not a bloody playground, you know!”

“Where’s her suitcase?” Sherlock snapped back.

“What suitcase?” Lestrade asked.

“Her suitcase! Her suitcase!” Sherlock insisted. “What did she do with it? Eat it? It has to be around here somewhere!”

And he continued muttering about a missing suitcase, without giving any explanation whatsoever,  then made his way out, Lestrade and John hot on his heels until he ran and disappeared around the corner, leaving the two of them bent double and panting. Damn but Sherlock could run fast. He’d had a glimpse of it in his dreams and when he tried to evade him after saving him from certain death, but he hadn’t realized just how much. John would have to get back in shape if he hoped to be able to tag along.

“Aren’t you supposed to follow him?” Lestrade asked in between breaths, gesturing in the direction they had last seen Sherlock’s coat tails flapping out of view. “I thought you were his bodyguard?”

“Nah,” John said dismissively, knowing Sherlock was in no immediate mortal danger thanks to his Dreams. “He’s good for now. Do you know where I can get a cab?”

 


	4. Drawing Unwanted Interest

Lestrade had left John his number in case Sherlock found something important or if he needed help, but he didn’t really seem to expect John would use it, and with good reason: it felt too much like spying.

As he made his way back up to the main street, strange things started happening: public phones rang whenever he walked past them. It could have been a coincidence if it hadn’t been every single bloody phone he came across. John dug his own phone out of his pocket, checking that it was on. It was. If someone was so desperate to reach him, why didn't they just call him on his bloody phone? It’s not like his phone number was a state secret- Wait a minute… Was this Sherlock’s brother doing this? The British Government? Sherlock had warned him he might try to get to him. Was this his way of showing off? A demonstration of his power?

John snorted, put his phone back in his pocket and ignored the next ringing phones, smirking as he did so. It probably wasn’t a smart move, pissing off the British Government, especially if the other Holmes brother was anything like Sherlock, but he'd be damned if he just bowed to his almighty ringing power.

That’s when he noticed the numerous CCTV cameras that swiveled around to follow his progress down the road, as well as a large black car dogging his steps. John rolled his eyes, debated whether to flip the bird at the cameras. How very inconspicuous. Sherlock’s brother just wouldn’t leave him alone until he met him, would he? So John walked over to the black car and knocked on the black tinted window. He’d expected to find a Sherlock look-alike but it was a pretty young woman who lowered the window instead.

“What do you want?” he asked her.

“You would know if you picked up a phone now and then, Dr Watson,” she replied, never once stopping to type on her Blackberry after the first glance she had spared him, which annoyed John to no end. “Hop in.”

“What if I don’t want to?” John asked defiantly, crossing his arms as he glared down at her.

John got his answer when a bulky man in an impeccable suit stepped out of the front of the car and opened the other passenger door, his meaning quite clear: get in or I’ll make you. John was half-tempted to make a scene, but he might as well get this over with so he could get back home. Apparently, Sherlock’s brother always got what he wanted, one way or another.

Once in the car, John pointedly ignored the young woman and texted Sherlock.

 

_ On my way to meet your brother. Any advice? _

 

John tried to see where they were heading. The car was moving fast and avoided all the red lights as if by magic, which made him chuckle. Being the British Government sure had its perks. The Blackberry woman shot him a questioning look but John ignored her and read the message he’d just received. It was Sherlock.

 

_ Tell him he could stand to lose a few pounds. He’ll hate that. _

 

John snorted. Sherlock got along with his brother as well as he did with Harry, apparently.

 

_ Any SERIOUS advice, then? Some that wouldn’t get me locked up somewhere? _

 

_ If he offers you money, take it. _

 

John frowned. Why would Sherlock’s brother offer him money? Unfortunately, the car was slowing down so John reluctantly put his phone away and climbed out. He was in a vast warehouse, clean but empty save for the sleek black car, a man leaning on an umbrella and a chair. As it turned out, Sherlock’s brother looked nothing like him, except maybe for the eyes, just as sharp and calculating, taking in every little detail John’s person had to offer.

“Mr Holmes, I suppose,” John said and was glad to see the other man’s smug smile slip the tiniest bit.

“Sherlock told you about me,” he said, his face back under control, rigid and expressionless. “That’s…  unusual.”

“He didn’t say much,” John lied. “You could have just phoned me, you know? On my phone. If you wanted to talk.”

The man made a dismissive gesture, he looked very annoyed.

“What’s your relationship with my brother? You seem to have forged a very unusual bond, very fast. He even went so far as to ask me to procure him military files, looking for yours, I suppose, and Sherlock loathes asking me for any favours.”

John wondered if he knew about him having saved Sherlock’s life three times. This Holmes had eyes all over London, probably ears too, and John hadn’t thought at the time to be wary of CCTV cameras. 

“We’re flatmates, that’s all.” John lied again, surprised at how steady his voice was. He sounded convincing even to his own ears, but the other man narrowed his eyes at him, taking a couple of steps closer.

“I see you got over your psychosomatic limp, even the tremor in your hand. Yet, you haven’t consulted your therapist for over a month, and you’re still unemployed. Why is that, Dr Watson?”

“I’d say it’s none of your business, Mr Holmes.”

“It might be.”

“No, I really don’t think it is.”

Sherlock’s brother paused, studying John again.

“It’s quite an extraordinary recovery in any case. Quite… uncanny. Unbelievable, some might say.”

“Is that a threat?” John asked.

If Sherlock’s brother was half as important as he seemed to be, he might very well ship him back off to Afghanistan, honourable discharge be damned. John gulped, panic setting in. He couldn’t go back to Afghanistan, absolutely not. Not anywhere out of London, in fact. He needed to be right here by Sherlock’s side, or he wouldn’t be able to protect him. And he  _ needed _ to protect him.

Holmes chuckled but it was a hollow sound, void of any real mirth.

“No, I don’t want to upset my dear brother unnecessarily. But given your unemployment, I could offer you a significant amount of money on a regular basis if you decided to stay at 221B Baker Street.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Information, of course. Nothing… personal. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable sharing. Just tell me what he’s up to, that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” John said flatly, amused when that simple word managed to trip up the other man’s perfect composure once more.

“What? Just like that? I thought you’d put up more of a fight, be more… loyal.”

“You’re Sherlock’s brother, you’re just looking out for him, in your own twisted way. So we’re on the same side, right? Besides, Sherlock told me to accept the money. I think he wants to buy a new fancy microscope with it.”

Sherlock would want a detailed description of his brother’s indignant reaction to that. It seemed he knew exactly which buttons to push to get a rise out of him. John was dismissed at that point, The elder Holmes grudgingly thanking him and the Blackberry woman calling him back to the car to take him back to 221B Baker Street.

_ Your first payment has been wired. Don’t renege on our deal. MH _

John went to save the number in his contacts, wondering what the M stood for. Not a ‘Mike’ surely. Matthew? Mark? Martin? No all of those were way too plebeian for someone who wore a three piece suit, a fob watch and carried such a sturdy umbrella even when it wasn’t raining, and, given Sherlock’s own name, he should look for something a lot more outlandish and posh.

“Maxwell?” he asked the Blackberry woman, who for once, gave a small smile and shook her head. “Milton? Murdock? Montgomery? It has to be Montgomery.” But each were met in the negative. “Morpheus?” John asked with a grin and finally got the woman to laugh, but shake her head nonetheless. “All right, I’ll just ask Sherlock. Can I have  _ your  _ name at least. We’ll probably be seeing each other again.”

“Err… Anthea?” she offered.

“And is that your real name?” John asked, having picked up on the hesitation.

She shook her head and smiled again before returning to her Blackberry. Bunch of weirdos. John thought he would fit right in.

* * *

 

At 221B Baker Street, John found Sherlock in what he’d come to learn was one of his thinking poses. John had counted three of them so far: one lying down, one slouching and one standing, but his hands would always form a steeple at chest or chin level and his eyes be either closed or unfocused. However, Sherlock always quickly snapped out of it whenever John approached, even when he tried to be quiet and not disturb him.

“How did it go?” Sherlock asked.

“As well as could be expected. I’m spying on you, by the way, and I think we don’t have to worry about the rent anymore.”

“Good. You pissed him off, didn’t you?”

“Difficult not to, he’s a bit full of himself. What’s his first name by the way? His assistant wouldn’t say.”

“Uhm? Mycroft,” Sherlock replied dismissively, clearly bored with the subject, and he slapped on a third nicotine patch.

John made a face. Mycroft? That was awful. He must have been picked on as a kid with a name like that. John was thinking he’d rather have a ridiculously common name like his own, when he noticed a pink suitcase lying open on the coffee table.

“So you found it. Anything interesting?”

“No, except for the lack of a phone. That makes no sense, she worked in the media, had a string of lovers… she must have had a phone. The killer must have it, it’s the only logical explanation. Can I borrow yours?”

“Sure,” John said, tossing it over to him. “What’s the matter with your own phone?”

“Nothing, but he might recognize my number. It’s up on my website.”

“Wait! You’re texting a serial killer with my phone?” John exclaimed, horrified. 

He’d gotten used to the unusual, but Sherlock still managed to surprise him from time to time.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked with that warm smile that lit up and transformed his whole face. He was having way too much fun at his expense, the git.

“Anyone would say yes.”

“But not you,” Sherlock replied, sending the text off with a flourish. Such a drama queen.

“Yeah, well, I’m the exception to a lot of things now, aren’t I?”

Sherlock approached, invading his personal space and making John’s breath hitch at the unexpected closeness. Sherlock was always so distant, aloof. Even with John, whom he had no reason to be wary of, so John had just accepted that was the way he was. John held his gaze and gulped when Sherlock winked and dropped his phone back in his hand before stepping back, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Well, nothing had, really.

“So we just wait for the killer to contact us?” he asked after a beat.

“No, we’re going out. Dinner?”

John huffed.

“You know, sometimes I just can’t follow your train of thought. But sure, dinner sounds good, I’m starving,” John said snatching his coat up again. “Did you text Lestrade about the suitcase?”

“No. Should I?” he asked, already out the door.

“It’s evidence, Sherlock. Of course, you should. It could get you in trouble.”

“Urgh, tedious.”

“Fine, I’ll do it. I’d better ingratiate myself with the Detective Inspector anyways, just in case he  _ does  _ recognize me.”

“Yes. What was that all about? And you being a doctor?” Sherlock asked, spinning around unexpectedly so John almost walked into him. “You seem to be withholding an awful lot of information from me. Anything else you’d care to share?”

John’s heart was leaping out of his chest. They were too close, and at eye level, for a change. Jesus Christ! What was Sherlock doing to him?

“I don’t have a brother,” John offered apologetically.

“You must have! I can’t be this wrong! I’m never wrong.”

“So modest of you,” John scoffed but Sherlock looked really troubled by his mistakes. “Harry is short for Harriet. She’s my sister, though, so you were right, in a way. Anyone would have been mistaken.”

“But I’m not  _ anyone, _ ” he whined.

“No. No, you’re really not,” John said, before clearing his throat when they’d been staring at each other for far too long. He pushed past Sherlock, breathing heavily. You could have cut the air between them with a knife it was so thick with tension. What was going on? He couldn’t be… No. John Hamish Watson was  _ not _ attracted to Sherlock bloody Holmes. That could  _ not  _ happen. John had forsaken all and any romantic entanglements in order to protect Sherlock. And Sherlock would never be attracted to him, or anyone else for that matter. He’d mentioned something of the sort, it “not being his area”, whatever that meant. So they were both, in a way, married to their work. Maybe he just needed a good wank to get his pent-up sexual frustration out of the way. It had been a while, but he had been rather busy lately. John snorted at the thought: too busy to wank.

 

In the cab, John sent a first text to Lestrade:

 

_ The pink case is at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock found it in a bin. -John _

 

Then, because he was still too embarrassed to look at Sherlock, and felt like his face was flushing like a beacon, John texted Mycroft so as to not “renege” on their agreement, as he had put it.

 

_ Sherlock texted a serial killer. _

 

Then, he snickered when he an idea took form and continued:

 

_ Sherlock is going out for dinner. _

_ Sherlock is sitting in a cab.  _

_ Sherlock looks bored. _

 

His phone finally chortled back.

 

_ All right, you made your point, John. Congratulations for being as immature as Sherlock. _

 

John chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asked.

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s face radiated understanding.

“Ah, yes. It is rather fun to push his buttons, isn’t it?”

John smiled. Everything was back to normal.

* * *

  
  


One hour later and they were back at Baker Street. John was still famished, and now he was exhausted after pursuing a cab by foot, without even having the chance to taste any of the delicious smelling food from the italian restaurant where they’d had that stake-out. And all of that for nothing. 

“Back at last?” Lestrade asked when they entered their flat.

The DI had made himself comfortable in what had come to be ‘Sherlock’s’ armchair. He thanked John for texting him about the suitcase and accepted his offer of tea before he started stroking Sherlock’s ego to learn every detail of how he had found the missing pink suitcase. Lestrade sure knew how to play Sherlock when he put his mind to it, or Sherlock just didn’t care and wanted to get it out of the way.

By the time John had fixed himself a sandwich and made it back to the living-room, Lestrade was alone and looking put out as he stared out of the window.

“Where’d he go?” John asked him, looking around for Sherlock. He wasn’t usually so hard to spot.

“God only knows. It’s not like he bothers to explain his brilliant deductions to lesser minds. He just had an epiphany, looked up something on his laptop and ran off in a cab, the git. He didn’t even finish explaining about the suitcase.”

John looked around, searching for his laptop. Why would Sherlock just leave without a word? It didn’t make any sense. He tried calling and texting him but Sherlock ignored him, which was very unlike him. However, his laptop had been left open, a gps tracking device belonging to the victim displayed in the browser. John cursed. That idiot had just left,  _ alone _ , to face a serial killer? What was the use of having a protector if you just ran off blindly into danger? Or did he just assume he was safe because John had not dreamed of his imminent death? But what if John was to prevent that death without dreaming of it? Had that idiot not even considered that possibility?

Without another word, John ran out of the flat with the laptop and his gun, ignoring Lestrade’s dismayed shouts and all but getting run over by a cab to get it to stop.

* * *

 

.

Sherlock  _ had _ almost died. Almost  _ killed _ himself by swallowing that damn pill. Voluntarily! John wasn’t sure he could forgive him and he told him over and over again what an idiot he was. If John hadn’t arrived in time to shoot the cabbie… John shuddered at the mere thought and called Sherlock an idiot again, hitting him in the chest to vent his frustration, although the tacky orange shock blanket absorbed most of the blow.

John stormed off, leaving Sherlock behind in the ambulance, only to run straight into Mycroft Holmes.

“Trouble in paradise?” Mycroft asked.

“Your brother’s an idiot,” John snarled, brushing past him.

“Don’t I know it? Lucky you were there to save the day.”

John froze, his whole body going rigid. He refused to turn around and face the other Holmes or he would read the truth on his face. How did Mycroft know? No one should know he had shot the cabbie. It had been a difficult shot, near impossible with a simple handgun, and John had been well hidden in the shadows of the unoccupied building.

“So I  _ was  _ right? Well, you’re just full of surprises, Dr Watson.”

John decided the best course of action was just to ignore him and go on his merry way. Mycroft had no proof. Unless he frisked him and tested his hands for powder residue right there and then, he had no proof. He’d just taken a shot in the dark, so to speak, or processed by elimination as to the most likely suspect and John was it. So John stormed off into the night, leaving the Holmes brothers behind and wondering how much more complicated his life would become.

  
  


He hadn’t made it far into the main street, trying, and failing, to hail down a cab when a long sleek black car slowed down beside him. If this was Mycroft bloody Holmes again, John was going to punch that sickening, sugary smile right off his smug face. Wishful thinking, of course. John doubted he could get away with punching the British Government and Mycroft struck him as the prickly sort.

He decided his best course of action was just to ignore him, like he had with the blasted ringing phones parade but the car stopped ahead of him and a burly, bald man in black military fatigues stepped out, leaving the door open and blocking his way. He didn’t look friendly, to say the least, so John stopped in his tracks. Mycroft wouldn’t actually hurt him, would he? Unfortunately, he didn’t know him all that well, but the one meeting he’d had with the man and the way Sherlock talked about him did nothing to reassure him. And this man - bodyguard, henchman, agent - whatever the hell he was, did not look like he wanted to play nice. He had that bored demeanour he’d seen often enough amongst soldiers, like he could break your arm without a second thought, but his eyes had that predatory glint that meant he would enjoy hearing you scream as he did so. Strong, self-confident and sadistic. It was usually a very bad combination, and John wasn’t all that sure he was one of Mycroft’s men. The elder Holmes was a bit more subtle. Besides, why wouldn’t he sent Anthea, like he did last time.

_ Dodge. Tackle. Kick. Run. Take your gun out. _

His fight or flight instinct was kicking in and John struggled to keep it under control. He had to be smart about this. John glanced around for an escape. His best chance was going back the way he’d come, the path was still clear, Sherlock and Lestrade weren’t far, but that meant turning his back on this guy. An idea John was not comfortable with. He took a step backwards and was promptly flattened against the car. A few passersby looked on curiously while John sputtered indignantly and tried to fight back, but as he expected, he was overpowered by the man’s sheer mass.

He was spun around again, the bald man showing him his phone and gun with a teasing grin, as if daring him to try and get them back. Pointless. John just glared back, still looking for a way to escape when he heard his name being shouted down the street.

_ Sherlock! _

John used the other man’s temporary distraction to hit his hands so he’d fumble to catch both his phone and the loaded gun, then he ducked under his other arm and sprinted towards Sherlock. Three steps. That’s all he managed to take before he was tripped up, picked up like a sack of potatoes and thrown in the back of the car before it sped away in a screech of tires. John hadn’t even had time to call for Sherlock, he hadn’t even had the chance to see him.

 

He landed face first on the carpeted floor of the car and had no time to get his bearings or lash out at his kidnappers that a knee was pressed heavily to his spine, right between his shoulder blades, and his hands pulled back.  _ Bastards _ . John couldn't even see who his kidnappers were in this position All he knew was that one wore expensive leather shoes and the other heavy reinforced boots. That might tell Sherlock a whole lot about them but it only informed John that one was a  _ rich  _ bastard with good taste in shoes.

"Oh! You should see his face, Johnny boy! It's faaaabulous!" the man who wasn't atop him singsonged.

Oh, great. So now John knew that this was about Sherlock, no real surprise there, and that his kidnapper sounded completely loopy. He felt his chances of survival had just plummeted into the negatives and he tried pushing the second man off of him.

"Poor Sherlock. So pissed off. And so desperate! He must really like you. Oh, this could be good. Better than what I'd planned." John heard him clapping his hands excitedly. 

Completely off his rocker. He had to get out of here. 

"Be a dear and blindfold our good doctor," the madman added.

To his credit, the other man wasn't rough about it, so John didn't fight it. 

_ Pick your battles, Watson. My hands and legs are still free. _

"And tie his hands. It looks like our guest is getting a little twitchy. We wouldn’t want him to try anything stupid. What’s the matter, Doc? You look a little angry."

"Damn right I am!" John growled, wincing when his bad shoulder was pulled back and his hands were tied tightly behind him. Plastic zip tie, John guessed, annoyed. They had no give. These guys knew what they were doing. He still hoped they'd leave his legs untied. If he had his legs free, he could still run, he still had hope. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

"Nuh, uh, uhhh," the madman tutted, wagging his finger, while John was abruptly pulled up and thrown onto the car seat next to him and he started whispering into his ear, making John shiver because it was such a creepy thing to do. "I caught you, so  _ I _ get to ask the questions. If you want  _ your _ answers, Johnny boy, you'll have to catch  _ me _ . And wouldn't that be delicious,” he finished, licking the side of John’s face. 

John recoiled, trying to scuttle away from the madman, but blindfolded in such a cramped space, there was no hope for even something as basic as personal space.

"You're  mad. There's no point even talking to you," John muttered, trying to wipe his cheek on his shoulder..

"Maybe... Maybe noooot," the madman singsonged again. "But you, Johnny boy, have been a bad bad boy. So answer my questions and I might not punish you too severely. Why did you kill my cabbie?”

John scoffed, but was in truth rather worried that the madman claimed the cabbie as his own. Did that mean he had set the serial suicide-murderer on Sherlock?

"You expect me to be sorry?" John groused.

He wouldn’t be giving this man any information if he could help it. Not if it could be used against Sherlock who was clearly his real target.

"HE WAS NOT YOURS TO PLAY WITH!" the madman suddenly shouted making John jump in his seat and the zip ties dig deeper into the soft flesh of his wrists at the sudden movement. He had probably cut them open judging by the wetness he could feel sliding down his wrists and into his hands.

John kept himself as far back in the seat as he could. He knew it wouldn’t keep him much safer but he felt better for trying. If only he could see, maybe he’d have an idea of what his kidnappers were planning. Their intentions, their destination… anything! John didn’t like feeling helpless, he was a soldier, a man of action.

"I don't care. He was going to kill Sherlock," John muttered, unsure how the madman would respond to defiance and steeling himself for a blow, at the very least, but all he got was another mad cackle.

" _ Sherlock _ was going to kill himself," the other corrected, his voice having resumed a semblance of normalcy. "Or not. What do you think, Johnny boy? Is dear old Sherly clever enough to have picked the right pill? Is he?"

John wanted to say that of course he was. Sherlock was a genius, by far the most intelligent man he'd ever met, but John had intervened anyway, maybe for nothing, too scared of losing his only friend and the person he was meant to protect. But he hadn't dreamed of Sherlock’s death after all, so maybe… . John realized with dread that he'd over reacted by killing the cabbie, and by doing so, he was now at the mercy of this maniac.

So John only nodded. Yes, Sherlock had probably picked the right pill. The madman laughed.

"Oh, you've been a bad boy, Johnny. A very, very bad boy. Do you enjoy killing so much? Miss the war do you?"

John shook his head, and was promptly smacked on the side of his face. Damnit, that hurt even more when you didn’t see it coming.

"Don't lie to yourself, Johnny boy. I know what a bad boy you've been, mucking up all my plans."

John stiffened. Surely he didn't mean him saving Sherlock those others times too. Nobody knew about those. Supposedly.

"Oh yes. I know. I’ve had my eye on Sherlock for a very long time, so I  _ saw  _ you, Johnny boy," the madman whispered so close to his skin, John could feel the warmth of his breath, and the faint smell of spearmint. He tried desperately to lean back even further. The door handle digging in the small of his back. If he twisted just a little, he should be able to reach it. Maybe the door was unlocked. Sometimes it was the little details that made a carefully laid out plan fall to pieces. He’d know, he’d seen it first hand in Afghanistan. Six dead because of a fucking overlooked detail. 

John twisted in his seat, hoping the maniac would mistake it for fear, and managed to take hold of the handle. He’d need to twist forward to open it and then... They seemed to be driving pretty fast by the sound of it. This might be the end for him, either killed by a bad fall or run over by another car. But the alternative of staying with this lunatic didn't seem much better.

"The question is how you did it? But I have a feeling you won’t be telling me without a little incentive. You’re not very talkative, are you Johnny boy? I’m sooooo disappointed!"

This was it then, he had two choices right now: torture, or jumping out of a speeding car. John pulled the handle. 


	5. The Art of Elusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really loving your comments! Had some great discussions about the characters with you guys :)
> 
> All my thanks to my best friend A_Sherlocked__Girl for her help in keeping me writing! It's quite a feat, believe me. Her whipping hand will never be the same again. You can thank her too by reading her fics.

The car suddenly lurched to a halt, sending John tumbling forward into someone's lap as he had no way to hold onto anything, the handle slipping from his grasp.

Strong arms pushed him upright and back in the seat again. The henchman, no doubt, since the madman was busy shouting and cursing at his driver, but John only heard the tail end of that argument:

"And if you so much as jostle us again, I'll skin you myself and have you made into a handbag to send back to your mommy! Vamos!"

There was movement and the rustle of cloth as the maniac seated himself again and the car swerved left and right, but not as fast as before. This was his chance, he just needed to find the door handle again.

"Iceman playing silly buggers with me," the madman muttered, probably to himself, before his voice picked up, more commanding. "We're  going to the closest switch, four minutes."

John had no idea what he was talking about and wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had managed to squirm closer to where he thought the door was, but at that command, the henchman kept a strong grasp on John's arm. Too late.

The car soon screeched to a halt, doors were flung open, someone pulling on John's arm, air that smelled oily and musty… an underground parking lot? Then, he was pushed into... a boot, he realized when the lid slammed shut. A friggin car boot. His day just kept getting better and better. Well, at least the madman wasn't in here with him. Yep, he had the boot all to himself, lucky him, but he still counted that as an improvement over sharing space with the other maniac. Quickly, John squirmed in the cramped space, trying to rub his face against... Anything really, his shoulder, the smelly carpet, the side of the car... Until he managed to wedge his blindfold down.  He had regained his sight at least, well...  technically, because it was too dark in the boot to actually see anything. Still, it was a step in the right direction.

John doubted he could do anything about his hands though, tied as they were behind his back and too tightly to loop them to the front, so that left trying to pop the boot open and jump before they arrived at  whatever loony bin his kidnapper had crawled out of. John knew the quickest way to do that was to find the latch or the release cable. Something he’d learned in army training because occidentals made good ransom hostages. Of course, he and the others guys in his squad had then made a game out of it, betting who would get out the fastest. It usually took John a couple of minutes to free himself out of a boot but he had never tried it with his hands tied behind his back before.

_Overlooking small details will get you killed._

John turned onto his back, his wounded shoulder protesting as he tried to pry the carpet he was lying on away in order to reach the cables he knew were running underneath. John was breathing heavily, his arms getting numb but he finally got his hands on the thickest cable and twisted to follow it...yes! It was connected to the boot latch. It had taken him well over ten minutes but he could escape. However, as soon as he pulled that cable, the driver would know the boot was open, so he would have to run, run as fast as he had ever done before.

John gave a sharp tug and was rewarded with a soft pop, a blast of fresh air and lights everywhere. Still in the heart of London, thank God for small mercies. John braced himself. Even if the car was not moving very fast, this was going to hurt like hell. He jumped, aiming for the pavement and trying to tuck his head in as he rolled several times. Cars honked, tires screeched, metal crunched, but John was too disoriented to care right now and just prayed he wouldn’t be run over like a stray cat.

_Come on! Up, up, up!_

John pushed on his legs, swaying as he took a few steps forward but froze when he heard a shot ring past and shatter the nearest window shop. Too close. The few pedestrians nearby screamed as they fled.

“Stop right there, Watson!” someone yelled.

John glanced around to see a tall blond man levering a gun at him.

_Fuck that._

John bolted forward, running blindly as he zigzagged around the cars blocked in the street, or just slid across their hoods on his arse, but his gait was made awkward with his hands still tied behind his back and he tripped a couple of times. There, sirens. Sirens! Flashing red and blue lights! Police, firemen or ambulances, he didn’t care. John made himself run faster, he was desperate, he just needed to push a little more and he’d be free. He didn’t dare look behind him, had no time to and he might trip again.

_And get shot. Or worse, captured again._

John’s lungs and muscles were burning by the time he saw the first police car. He made a beeline for it, staggering more than running now, and stopped, His legs wobbling like jelly as he finally glanced behind him. No trace of his pursuer. John fell to his knees, completely exhausted.

Police officers swarmed around him, asking questions, helping him up, cutting his hands free, but he was too dazed to do anything but let himself be guided away from the road and sitting against a car hood as they waited for the paramedics.

_I got away! I made it!_

This was the only thought John could process right now. It went round and round in his head.

_I got away! I made it!_

He was safe.

“John? John Watson? Blimey! It is you!”

John knew that voice but his mind was all fuzzy. Concussion. He shouldn’t close his eyes.

“John! Stay awake, John. Stay with me,” the voice ordered and John nodded because that’s what he would advise too.

“I sent Sherlock a text. Christ, he was going ballistic.”

John felt something warm surround him and it took all his strength to focus. A long greyish coat. That was nice, better even than a shock blanket because it was already warm and not as scratchy.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to concentrate on the face of the man who’d been talking his ear off. “Lestrade.”

“Good to know your brain isn’t too damaged,” the DI tried to joke but winced as he looked John over.

God, he must look a right sight. Lestrade helped him up and led him to the ambulance that had just arrived, adding to the chaos of lights and sirens.

“Go on. Sherlock will meet you there, he’s already on his way,” he told John as he was helped into the vehicle, then hesitated. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Sure, yeah,” John replied, giving a weak smile. He didn’t know Lestrade all that well, but it was nice of him to offer since John didn’t particularly feel at ease at the back of a vehicle with a bunch of strangers right now “Got questions, right?”

“Yeah, and you got my coat,” he teased.

Lestrade hopped on, easily staying out of the way of the paramedic - probably used to it given his line of work - who was hovering over John, taking his vitals, dressing his still bleeding wounds and... damn his wrists hurt! - but that didn’t stop John from really wanting to sleep even as the paramedic kept nudging him into wakefulness. He was good at his job, thorough and gentle, John noted approvingly and immediately passed out.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock!” John screamed and bolted upright, immediately regretting it as his body protested, pain signals flooding his brain from just about everywhere.

“Shh,” came a soothing voice before his bed dipped and he was overwhelmed by the smell of all things Sherlock: expensive shampoo, cigarette smoke and a mix of chemicals you only found in specialized labs. “I’m right here.”

John fell back in his bed and leaned towards Sherlock, grateful for his heat because it meant he was alive and well.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Three in the morning. You’ve only been out for a few hours,” Sherlock shifted his weight on the mattress, seemingly hesitant. “Dream?”

John nodded, but didn’t say anything, not here in such a public space where anyone could overhear or spy on them.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here,” Sherlock promised, running a hand softly through his hair near his temple. It felt nice, soothing, and without realizing it, John was drifting off into a more peaceful kind of sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

John could hear whispers nearby. People assume they won’t wake you if they whisper rather than talk, when it’s in fact the contrary that happens. Whispers are an anomaly, something to be wary of, so your subconscious nudges you awake in case of impending danger.

“He _what_?” Sherlock whispered but even then, it sounded completely outraged.

“Oh, yeah!” Lestrade was whispering back, hardly able to contain his excitement. “My guys found a video from a nearby shop, the one that got it’s window busted. It’s not very good quality, mind you, but you can clearly see John popping out of the boot like a demented Jack-in-the-Box, jumping from the car into the middle of traffic, dodging the cars and then a bullet before running like a wild hare across the traffic jam all the way up the street until he found us. All that with his hands tied behind his back! I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Let me tell you he’s become quite a celebrity at the Yard. You should bring him around sometime.”

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade sympathized. “But it was still amazing. Do you think I can recruit him on my team? I could use someone that resourceful.”

“You bloody well will not!” Sherlock barked and Lestrade immediately told him off for being so loud.

“S’kay,” John rasped, his mouth feeling like it was full of flour. He reached over to the side where a small glass of water had been left and took a sip. Just that simple act drained him of his forces again and Lestrade hurried over to catch the glass before he dropped it. “M’awake, anyway.”

Sherlock approached too and glared down at him, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Is it true?” he demanded.

“I’m amazing, yeah,” John answered, trying to smile but even his face hurt so he gave up.

Sherlock wasn’t smiling. Quite the opposite in fact. His expression was thunderous, like John had never seen it before. Anger, hurt, confusion, fear, too many emotions flickering across his face at an alarming speed.

“That was stupid! Careless! You could have _died_!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“He was going to kill me anyway,” John huffed, annoyed now. He didn’t regret his actions, he was alive after all, if a bit worse for wear. “And slowly at that. I wasn’t going to do nothing like a lamb taken to slaughter!”

“I would have found you,” Sherlock argued.

“You don’t know that, Sherlock. They were very clever about it, believe me. And I’m not some bloody helpless princess who needs to wait on her knight in shining armour to come save her! I can take care of myself!”

“A helpless... Is that how you see me, then?” Sherlock snarled.

“No! Damnit, Sherlock! You know that’s different-” John growled but cut himself off.

This was not a conversation they could possibly have here with the DI as a witness. Especially because the latter’s mouth was hanging open, and his cheeks slightly flushed.

“I- Sorry,” Lestrade stuttered. “I hadn’t realized you two… that you were like that,” John and Sherlock shared a puzzled look with the DI. “A couple, I mean. It’s _obvious_ , now. Should have seen it sooner really. Ha! What a copper that makes of me,” he added, laughing nervously as he finished.

“What-” John began.

“No, we’re not-” Sherlock said at the same time.

John recalled the times Sherlock had deliberately invaded his personal space for no good reason and how his own body had reacted to such proximity… he quickly ducked his head, blushing. Maybe he could just pretend to go back to sleep and forget this whole messy conversation.

“It’s not like that,” Sherlock said smoothly. “We live together, that’s all.”

John felt his heart ache at those words, although he knew Sherlock didn’t really mean them. However, he certainly couldn’t explain the nature of their bond to an outsider. It was secret for a reason and who would believe them anyway?

“Erm… You’re not helping your case, Sherlock,” Lestrade pointed out with a grin.

“As flatmates. We’re flatmates,” John snapped, wanting the discussion over.

“Riiiight,” Lestrade said, drawing the single word out and not looking the least bit convinced. “So... if you’re well enough, I’m gonna need you to tell me what happened, John.”

And John did. From the moment the bald man stepped out of the car to his escape from the boot. The rest of his flight up the street, Lestrade already knew about apparently and it was all a bit of a blur to John who had been focused on running and not much else. Some details prior to that had become fuzzy too, whether because of the concussion, all the excitement of running for his life or the large quantities of painkillers that had been pumped into his body, John couldn’t say. It was

difficult enough concentrating on not giving up any detail of his involvement in the cabby’s death and Lestrade was very thorough in his interrogation. Sherlock seemed to understand John’s hesitations and silences for what they were, lies and deceit, whereas Lestrade gave him sympathetic smiles and reassured him that it would come back to him eventually, making John feel even more like shite.

“Okay, well, sorry if I tired you out, John, but it was important to get your statement as soon as possible, especially because we’re stumped on our side. The two cars seem to have just disappeared into thin air, but I’ll get the artist to come around after you get a bit of rest, see if he can get a portrait of the two men you saw.”

John nodded and waved him off. He was exhausted, truth be told. He lied back against his pillow and felt his eyes drooping heavily.

“You’re still an idiot,” Sherlock told him, but his expression was one of fondness this time as he sank back in the visitor’s chair Lestrade had just vacated.

 

* * *

 

 

“Urgh! I can’t stand it! It’s just bruises! Can’t they let me go already?” John muttered after a nurse had bandaged his raw wrists and knees anew.

He’d been there for three days already and the inaction was driving him crazy. He had so much to tell Sherlock about the madman, about The Dream. Time was running out! Once The Dream had taken form, that meant Sherlock’s end was close. They needed to take his dream apart, analyze it and plan ahead to avoid… John shuddered. And yet he could do nothing because he was stuck is a stupid hospital bed. He couldn’t even fathom how Sherlock was managing to stay so calm.

“So it’s true,” Sherlock commented mildly from the chair he’d elected as his new residence for as long as John was there. “Doctors do make the worst patients. And it’s not just bruises, as you very well know: one concussion, deep lacerations on your wrists and forehead, your knees are reduced to the state of mince meat and you have two fractured ribs. How you didn’t actually break anything is a mystery.”

“Don’t,” John said, holding up his hand in warning. “Not this again, or I’ll have to remind you who was about to take a poisoned pill, _voluntarily_.”

They’d been having this argument on and off during their stay in the hospital and both were getting fed up with it: Sherlock, because he disliked the dullness of repetition and John because Sherlock was in full denial about ever being in danger.

“But seriously, can’t you get me out of here?” John pleaded. “Please? I just need time to heal now, there’s no reason to stay in the hospital and you’re going to have to sleep sooner or later. Let’s go back home?”

Sherlock looked at him until the mulish expression he’d worn since their argument broke into a malicious smile that didn’t bode well for whoever was going to be at the receiving end of whatever he’d plotted.

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said with a wink and disappeared through the door before John could try to curb his enthusiasm.

Well, John _did_ want to go home. If Sherlock had to make a few nurses and doctors cry in the process, it would be worth it. He wanted calm, not the constant hubbub of the hospital all around him. He wanted the familiarity of Baker Street, not the sanitised anonymity of his sick room. He wanted tea - real tea, not the sock juice they served here - his bed, his own damn pajamas. But most of all, he wanted to be able to talk with Sherlock without fearing eavesdroppers. He wanted home.

With painstaking difficulty and many groans, John dressed himself, with the spare clothes Mrs Hudson had had the foresight to bring on her last visit. John was doing his best to delete the fact she had picked out his flashy red pants personally when Sherlock strode in with a smirk, pushing a wheelchair in front of him.

“Just under fifteen minutes,” he announced. “Embezzlement and an affair, you’re in luck, John.”

John snorted. Only Sherlock could come up with something so outrageous and that should in no case be taken out of context. He helped him into the wheelchair while John tried not to groan or wince too much just in case Sherlock changed his mind and aborted his bid for escape. Then, John borrowed his phone while Sherlock pushed him across and down floors to text both Mycroft and Lestrade before they thought they’d both been kidnapped from the hospital and sent their men after them. It could be embarrassing if they kicked down the doors of their flat while he was having a bubble bath or something.

 

* * *

 

 

221B Baker Street had been just as they’d left it before running after the cabby, which was to be expected since neither he nor Sherlock had been back since then. If John did not hurt so much everywhere, it would almost feel like returning home after a holiday but he was panting and using Sherlock as a makeshift crutch. The stairs had been murder and he glared at the flight of stairs that led to his own room as he collapsed in the sofa. But first things first, they had a lot to discuss.

“We really need to-” John started before he realized Sherlock wasn’t there anymore. Where had he run off to? “Sherlock?”

“In a minute!” he called back and John could hear a flurry of activity behind him.

Then, Sherlock reappeared with a blanket he carefully laid on John’s lap and a steaming cup of tea he set on the table within easy reach.

“Thanks,” John said with a warm smile that the other reflected before he became serious once more. “Listen-”

This time it was Sherlock who interrupted him by pressing his index finger to his lips and winking, both gestures so furtive, he wasn’t sure he had not imagined them. But Sherlock started stalking around the room, his eyes darting everywhere, his long fingers plucking at random objects.

“There,” he announced throwing a bunch of small devices into one of his old experiments that was, as far as John could tell, a big vat of acid where the objects fizzled and died. “That should be all of them.”

“All of them...what?” John asked, mystified.

“Mycroft has a very peculiar concept of security. Some might call it spying.”

“You mean those were…”

“Microphones and cameras, yes. But don’t worry, Mycroft is not so crass as to have wired our bedrooms or the bathrooms, and I already took care of the kitchen. Now, we can talk.”

John gaped at him, but Sherlock seemed to find the situation completely normal, as if it was an everyday occurrence to have your brother wiretap your flat.

“If you’re not too tired that is,” he added with a touch of concern, completely misreading his befuddlement.

“No, fine, yes.” John cleared his throat. Where to begin? Ah, yes, of course. The man from his Dream who was so set on killing Sherlock: “Moriarty.”

Sherlock flinched ever so slightly.

“So you’ve heard the name before,” John stated and received a nod.

“The cabby told me I had a ‘fan’ who acted as his sponsor for the murders. I coaxed a name out of him before he died: Moriarty.”

John blanched, worrying Sherlock.

“It’s just… the man who kidnapped me said the cabby was ‘his’. I didn’t see him but he sounded nothing like the man, Moriarty, that was in my dreams.” John frowned in thought. “No, that’s not it... he talked the same way except for the strong Irish accent.”

“Accents can be concealed, or added, as need be, with a little training,” Sherlock told him, changing his accent every few words.

“That’s amazing,” John said. “Well, that explains a lot…”

John filled Sherlock in on what exactly he’d left out from his official statement to Lestrade, and Sherlock nodded, having apparently guessed most of it anyway and they soon got on with The Dream he’d started having since that first night in the hospital.

 

* * *

 

 

John knew he was in one of his special prophetic dreams. They just didn’t feel the same as reality or the dreams he used to have, those normal people have. But he was startled nonetheless to see himself there. He did a double-take and had and minor episode of vertigo at seeing a John Watson outside of himself, identical in all aspects. Like having a twin, he supposed, but he wasn’t as battered as he was now although there were still telltale traces of the bruises and cuts that he’d just gained. But such a thing had never happened before and John was terrified of what that could mean. Could it be that he wasn’t capable of saving Sherlock this time around?

John tried to get his tangled thoughts to just shut up for a minute in order to observe and memorize the scene playing out before him.

Old abandoned warehouse, no surprise there but the rest was surprising. The room was full of flood lights, blinding them as they walked in given the way they were shielding their eyes and squinting, the telltale flashes of  red and blue lights visible through dirty or broken window panes and policemen were  everywhere, going about their business. Undeniably coppers from Scotland Yard given their uniforms, although the lack of a forensic team puzzled him. He’d expect to see Anderson, being an arse as usual upon their arrival.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock called, having as little success as either dream-John or dreaming-John at locating  the Detective Inspector who usually came to meet them with either a tired scowl or an abashed smile, depending on whether the case was gruesome or just plain weird.

As if on cue, in one smooth motion all the policemen were pointing their guns at a surprised John and Sherlock, the sound of multiple safety catches being pulled back the only sound echoing in the warehouse before a man stepped out gingerly from behind one of the floodlights in his expensive suit, looking very much out of place in such a derelict building.

“James Moriarty. Hi!” he said with a strong Irish accent as he planted himself at arm’s length from them. “Am I glad you two have decided to join me. You’ve been causing so much trouble together that I decided to take a preemptive strike. Nothing personal.”

The two John’s were observing Sherlock, seeing he was looking frantically for a way out, a diversion, an angle of attack and finding none. Too many people had their guns pointing, not only at him but at John too.

“Oh, you look so sad, Sherly,” Moriarty mocked, pouting exaggeratedly as he shoved his face in Sherlock’s personal space. “Are you afraid for your little friend here? I must admit I didn’t know what you found in him at first, but there’s much more to him than first meets the eye. Like an angry grizzly passing himself off as a cuddly teddybear. I even thought of keeping him for myself,” he said as he trailed a finger down the side of dream-John’s cheek who barely managed to hide a shudder. “But we both know he’s far too loyal to you to be brought over to the fun side.”

Moriarty sighed heavily.

“So you’re just going to shoot us here? Tedious,” Sherlock said with apparent boredom although he probably wasn’t fooling anyone and neither Johns could fathom why he was trying to get a rise out of a criminal with an army of hired guns, but Moriarty cocked his head at Sherlock pensively.

“I did play games with you, Sherly, for years, decades, and you never caught on. You could have died many times over but you always make it out at the last minute. That overdose was quite fun to watch, I had my dealer sell you something a little purer than usual and you should have noticed if you hadn’t always been as high as a kite. I’m starting to think you’re more lucky than clever.”

Sherlock scoffed while both John’s looked at Sherlock in horror: He? Sherlock? A junkie?

“Uh-oh,” Moriarty chuckled. “It looks like you kept secrets from your little pet. That’s not very nice.”

Sherlock spared John a worried look before glaring back at Moriarty.

“He’s inconsequential,” Sherlock said, tossing his head in John’s direction. “Kill me and he won’t be any problem to someone like you.”

Moriarty laughed. It was a grating sound, high pitched and tinged with madness.

“I don’t think I believe you… but it is interesting. How would one live if the other died?” he asked no one in particular as he took out his own handgun.

“Sherlock, no!” John barked. “If that’s the best you could come up with, it’s not worth it.”

And just as Sherlock tried to convince him otherwise, Moriarty started shooting near their feet, effectively shutting them up as they stood frozen on the spot, wearing similar expressions of  “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” aimed at the Moriarty’s poor marksmanship.

“There,” Moriarty said happily after he had fiddled with the chamber’s content, pointing the gun at John, then Sherlock before turning it against John again. “Now, we can play a little game: one bullet left, two targets. Let’s see who’s luckiest then, shall we?”

John moved forward, wanting to rip the gun out of the madman’s hands but a bullet coming from one of the fake policemen surrounding them fired off and grazed his arm, forcing him to retreat hastily, holding the wound as he hissed at the burning sensation. Sherlock stepped closer, his worried look turning to one of horror when the hot barrel of Moriarty’s gun was pressed to John’s forehead.

“Since you’re offering to go first,” Moriarty said with a manic smile and pressed the trigger.

“No…” Sherlock breathed out.

_Click._

Moriarty laughed while John’s legs turned to jelly and he fell to his knees. Sherlock moved to help him up but Moriarty stuck the barrel to his forehead and forced him to stand ramrod straight. Dream-John face twisted in a grimace of such rage that dreaming-John now understood what his army-buddies called his warrior face, and he lunged himself at Moriarty’s legs before any of his henchman could react, but his finger, already curled around the trigger pulled taut as he fell, letting a bullet loose. Moriarty then backhanded John in the temple with the heavy gun before springing back to his feet.

“You chose… poorly,” Moriarty mocked, looking not John who was trying to blink his vision back into focus but at the spot where Sherlock had stood.

But Sherlock wasn’t standing anymore, his lanky form lay on the ground, a bright red stain blooming across his white shirt at heart level.

“I’ll be watching you, Johnny boy. Do keep me entertained!”

Shocked, the two Johns were screaming Sherlock’s name over and over as the false policemen filed out of the warehouse in orderly fashion behind their leader before John woke up, still screaming Sherlock’s name.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Sacrifices Must be Made

Sherlock paced around the living room once John had finished recounting The Fourth Dream. He was scowling furiously as he walked round and round the sofa where John was half lying under the blanket, muttering to himself.

“I wouldn’t be that stupid,” Sherlock finally groused, stopping his frantic movements.

“I wouldn’t be that impulsive,” John countered. “I- I killed you.”

“I would have died either way. A bullet to the brain, a bullet to the heart, the outcome is the same. Your dreams have always been accurate?”

“Down to a T.”

“We’re missing something.”

“Obviously,” John forced a strained smile upon his lips as he threw back at Sherlock his most annoying retort back at him for once.

“How did he get us there? We wouldn’t just walk willingly into a trap without any sort of back-up plan,” Sherlock continued throwing his hands in the air.

“Yeah, we looked surprised. We thought we’d be meeting Lestrade. How does he usually contact you for a case?”

“A text, most of the time.”

“A text? Just a bloody text? That seems... overly simple.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down the length of his nose at John. “I don’t have time to waste with useless chatter.”

John rolled his eyes. No wonder everyone seemed to think Sherlock was some kind of asocial eccentric, and that was putting it nicely. “So anyone who got their hands on Lestrade’s phone could have given you a false address to meet. Easier than kidnapping us, I suppose.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock smiled fondly at him. “But I don’t understand. That dream is already invalidated since we both know about the trap.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works. I had the same dream all the time, even when everything was planned to take your murderer-of-the-day out, with a plan B and a back-up plan to boot.”

“Have you ever tried to modify the Dream?”

“And how would I do that, Mister Genius? It’s not like The Dreams came with a handbook or anything. As far as I know, they don’t change. They just end once you’re saved.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his long fingers, thinking, no doubt, so John gave him some time to order his thoughts. It was already amazing that the man could function so well with as little sleep as he’d gotten lately.

“What were you wearing in The Dream?”

“I fail to see how that is relevant,” John muttered, Sherlock having teased him about his jumpers more than once.

“Humour me.”

John sighed and looked down at himself.

“Well, this jumper, actually. Are you needing a full inventory because I’m not so sure about my socks and pants,” John said sarcastically, although it seemed to pass right above Sherlock’s head who was looking at him, or rather his jumper, with a predatory gleam.

In two steps, Sherlock was looming over him, pulling his jumper over his head while John protested loudly but he did not fight back lest he hurt his ribs or cuts.

“Oi! Sherlock! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving our lives,” he answered smugly.

“By getting me naked?”

Sherlock locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow as if he was seriously considering the idea. John felt his face flush and he relinquished the lax grip he’d kept on the wooly item, abandoning it to its fate. “As tempting as it is, no. I’m creating a paradox,” Sherlock declared and in no time, he had stuffed the captured jumper in the vat of acid where he’d disposed of Mycroft’s spying equipment.

John looked on in horror as one of his favourite jumper began sizzling and smoking before  disappearing in a big whoosh of unnatural green flames after Sherlock threw a match on top.

“That should do it,” Sherlock announced, clapping his hands together.

“Have you ever heard of overkill, Sherlock?” John said, “I still fail to see how this helps.”

“Simple, we’ll know if we can modify your dreams. Your jumper is no more, ergo it cannot appear in a dream that shows the future. If there is no change, your dreams are unreliable. We already know we are going to be set up and there are dozens of ways we can avoid it by taking action before it even happens. But action that has a direct impact on reality. From your notes, I understand that before now, you’ve always skirted around me and the players of the Dreams carefully, not making any waves. I think we should do the opposite. If we can change what jumper you’re wearing, we can change the outcome of the trap, or avoid it entirely, before it even happens.”

“But I liked that jumper,” John protested.

“And you have the gall to tell me I need to set my priorities right,” Sherlock said, mussing up John’s hair as he passed on his way to open a window. The smoke from the sacrificed jumper was a bit overwhelming and Mrs Hudson was bound to call the fire station if she thought Sherlock had set the flat on fire again.

 

* * *

 

 

John gasped as he woke up, pulled out by the intensity and despair of The Dream once more. Seeing Sherlock die when he hadn’t known him had been bad enough, but he had been able to distance himself from it somewhat. He’d seen other men die in the war, good men, men he’d actually known and cared about.

But now, he knew Sherlock. Christ, he even liked him, despite his many quirks. So watching him die every night, even knowing it was only a vision and that they were working to make it not come true, made him feel as if his heart was being squeezed dry from the inside of his chest. John rubbed it unconsciously with one hand, and his eyes with the other, trying to locate his alarm clock. Except that the room was all wrong. The bed too large, too soft. The room too dark and smelling of Sherlock. Oh, right. Sherlock. He’d insisted John take his room so he wouldn’t have to deal with the stairs. It was logical, but John hadn’t caved in until Sherlock had promised to take John’s bed if he did eventually feel like sleeping, which he seemed to imply was unlikely to happen any time soon.

“Ten past four,” came a raspy voice by his side, startling John out of his wits and setting his abused heart to pounding like a jackhammer.

“Sherlock? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“My bed,” he mumbled, turning on his side to look at him.

Apparently, Sherlock had lied about not needing to sleep, as well as taking John’s bed if he did feel like it. Not to mention his blatant disregard for the concept of privacy. Just more of Sherlock’s little quirks. The worse was that past the first stage of bewilderment, John always ended up finding them endearing. Even now. He took a deep breath to steady his heart and get it to beating at a more sedate pace.

“Did it work?” Sherlock asked after a while.

The curiosity about finding out if his experiment with The Dream had worked or not was probably eating at him. John hummed, delaying his answer as payback for the fright Sherlock had given him. He shifted so he could get a good look at Sherlock who he’d never actually caught sleeping or even just looking sleepy, but he winced as his ribs protested against such a twist of his sore body and the moment was lost, Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snapping open as he heard the pained hiss slipping through John’s clenched teeth. Sherlock hurried out of bed and left the room, returning with his painkillers and a glass of water before John even had time to protest.

“Thanks,” John mumbled, swallowing the pills. “And yeah, it actually worked, you mad genius.”

John was a bit embarrassed at never having even thought of doing such an experiment. It should have been obvious really, and it only required the utter annihilation of a jumper to test. Sherlock grinned at the praise and, surprisingly, got back under the sheets next to John who didn’t know whether to be angry or amused once more. He settled for a half-hearted huff and made himself more comfortable before giving Sherlock a more detailed report.

The Dream had been basically the same so they at least knew the choice of a jumper did not affect the world’s destiny, butterfly effect be damned. The strange thing was that he wasn’t wearing a jumper he owned either. It wasn’t even one he would have picked for himself: a pale grey blue, hardly thick enough to seem warm but which looked softer than anything else he owned. Good quality then, and it had actually looked well cut. In fact, he’d looked damn good in it as it brought out his eyes and showed off his build rather than conceal it like his other jumpers did.

However, his birthday wasn’t due anytime soon... He looked suspiciously at Sherlock who took offence at his narrowed eyes.

“What?” Sherlock said defensively.

“You wouldn’t happen to have thought of buying me a jumper since yesterday?”

“I… erm… I already did. Buy one, that is. Online. While you were sleeping. Earlier, I mean,” Sherlock’s words stumbled uneasily out of him. He’d never looked so unsure of himself before, but just as suddenly as it had come, Sherlock’s usual self assured face took over once more. “I did destroy your favourite jumper after all. It’s only right.”

“Well, ta,” John said, unable to hold back a too wide grin at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness. “It looks… It will look lovely.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, then he laughed like that had been the funniest thing he’d ever heard and John had to coax the reason why out of him.

“It’s just… People call me a freak. If they only knew how wonderfully strange you are. You’re really one of a kind, John Watson. I can’t even buy you a jumper without you knowing about it in the next few hours. How am I ever going to surprise you for your birthday, or any of those other days you’re supposed to offer presents?”

John snorted.

“Knowing you, you’ll find a way. Although we should probably be putting that big brain of yours to better use.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully and he was once again too close by social standards and yet, not close enough.

John’s whole mind and body clamoured for him to come closer still, shocking him into realizing that he wanted Sherlock. He was actually attracted to a man. This wonderful and beautiful genius of a man.

“Seems a worthy enough goal,” Sherlock finished before gazing intently at him like he did with his mold cultures, his face hovering dangerously close to his own.

John’s breathing was getting heavy while Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease, and he stopped breathing entirely when Sherlock raised one of his long pale fingers towards him and gently brushed the side of his face along his temple and then his jaw, letting it linger there while John was fighting the urge not to lick it out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, between a protest and a plea.

Despite the fond expression on Sherlock’s face, John had a sinking feeling he was being used as a mere experiment for… something. Just another mold culture. So he cleared his throat after the silence between them had stretched for too long, trying to affect nonchalance, probably failing badly at it.

“What-”

But before John could ask any more, a huge yawn assaulted him and he cursed the pills he’d taken for making him so sleepy despite the dopamine currently racing through his system.

“Sleep first, I reckon,” Sherlock chuckled. “We’ll set our plan into motion tomorrow.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, John woke up in Sherlock’s bed alone. Sherlock had been in the bed with him, right? He hadn’t just imagined it? Or that? He could still feel the ghostly sensation of Sherlock’s finger on his face and he touched his jaw where his long fingers had rested, hardly daring to believe it had happened. It had happened, right? He hadn’t been dreaming… Well, no, that couldn’t technically happen since John didn’t have normal dreams anymore. So…

John had a minor panic attack, not knowing how he was supposed to act now with Sherlock. And how could he have possibly fallen asleep after that? Damn those pills! John lingered in bed a little longer, listening for Sherlock next door but all he could hear was Mrs Hudson puttering downstairs. Had Sherlock left?

John had another minor panic attack, hoping Sherlock had not left because of what had almost happened last night. Or had he imagined all of it? John smacked his head with the palms of his hands. His brain would surely short circuit if he continued going round in circles like this. He should just get up and deal with whatever was going to happen like a man.

With renewed resolve, John threw the blankets off him, savouring the chill that jolted him awake and stood to his full height, puffing out his chest and ready to take on the world, and Sherlock. He regretted the foolhardy gesture immediately though, his ribs reminding him painfully that they did not appreciate the extra strain he was putting them through. John groaned and bent double, bracing himself against the bed.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, bursting into the room and helping him right himself again.

“Nothing,” John mumbled through clenched teeth. “Forgot about the ribs is all.”

Thankfully Sherlock didn’t comment as he helped him sit himself at the kitchen table, shoving his pills and a glass of water his way before returning to the microscope he’d obviously left in a hurry to go check on John’s idiocy. He was a doctor for heaven’s sake! How could he mistreat his own injuries, he should know better.

John chugged down his medicine, examining Sherlock’s profile as he concentrated on the slide under his microscope. He seemed his usual self, nothing transpired of what had possibly sparked between them. John started to doubt himself again. He let his head fall in his hands while his mind cycled between the whole thing being a product of his own imagination running wild, Sherlock playing some kind of experiment on him that he’d gotten bored with or maybe he’d simply reconsidered his actions since last night and didn’t want to go down that road with him. Not that John couldn’t understand that. They had a peculiar bond, a unique one, and it was a risk to jeopardize it with romantic involvement of any kind. After all, Sherlock knew John had forsaken even attempting to date because of his Dreams and the sheer amount of time it took him to protect Sherlock, and Sherlock had mentioned dating not being ‘his area’, whatever that meant. But in that case, what had all that been about last night?

John startled when a steaming cup of tea was pushed between his arms, right under his nose.

“Looks like you need it,” Sherlock said as he lifted John’s chin with those damnably long fingers which had jumbled his mind so much last night.

Then, Sherlock loomed right over him, staring into his eyes as if he was reading something there, before he closed the distance to John’s upturned face and placed a chaste kiss on his lips.

By the time John shook himself out of his shocked stupor, Sherlock was already back at his microscope.

All right. He had not just imagined that. Sherlock was making sneak attacks on him, leaving him wrong footed every time. He’d been so taken by surprise he had hardly had the cognitive ability to enjoy Sherlock’s soft lips, damn him. That’s not how a first kiss was supposed to go.

John slid out of his chair and placed himself right behind Sherlock, calling his name softly. Sherlock swiveled around in his chair, humming in response and John pounced, fully intending to snog the living daylights out of him. He crushed his lips to Sherlock’s, relishing the surprised moan and the fluttering of his pale eyes as they closed. John slowly ambled his body forward until he fit snugly against Sherlock’s, between his thighs. Sherlock’s  lips were indeed soft, but warm and supple too as they moved against his. Perfect. John closed his eyes and breathed Sherlock in, pushing his luck as he nipped at his bottom lip, then begged for entrance with a light flick of his tongue.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his lips parting ever so slightly and John took advantage of his surprise, with a swipe of his tongue around Sherlock’s. He tasted so good that John couldn’t resist entangling their tongues even more, moaning when Sherlock responded in kind, pulling away only when he felt like the dizziness he was feeling was as much do to lack of oxygen than to the heat of passion coursing through his body.

“And that’s how you do it,” John panted as he disentangled himself from Sherlock’s arms.

They had snaked around him some time during the kiss and he hadn’t even noticed. John walked away with an awkward gait to the bathroom. He’d gotten a bit too excited and was in immediate need of a cold shower before he scared Sherlock off by jumping his bones. John smiled to himself. He’d never thought he’d ever get to feel like this again, all giddy and his whole body on fire just from a simple kiss. It was like being a teenager all over again, he thought with a chuckle, touching his lips that still tingled from the kiss.

They would probably have to talk about all this, have a serious conversation, but maybe now was not the best time to do that. They shouldn’t even be starting any sort of relationship considering there was a maniac out to get them right at this moment. Well, at least that grim thought had the benefit of getting rid of the stiffy John had been sporting and he switched the taps from cold to warm with a sigh of relief. John walked out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later in a cloud of steam and just a towel wrapped around his hips.

“Sherlock?” he called.

John had tried dressing his wounds himself but quickly realized he would need a hand for most of it. Something dropped behind him and he whirled around in a defensive stance, barely remembering to keep a hold on his towel, but it was only Sherlock, his mouth hanging open, and John relaxed immediately. He was way too tense, which was ridiculous since he knew Moriarty was not about to attack them in their flat. But Sherlock was still staring at him and John looked down at his battered body, his old and new wounds marring his skin. He suddenly felt self-conscious, he was no where near as young or perfect as Sherlock.

“I-” he started, his mouth dry. Gone was the cocky confidence he’d shown earlier. Now, he’d give anything to hide under one of Sherlock’s tent-sized bathrobes. “Erm...Bandages?”

Sherlock nodded and followed him without a word back to the bathroom where he helped him wrap his left wrist and his knees.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Sherlock said in a monotone, making John flinch. “Hurt.” Sherlock added with a huff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes when he caught John’s reaction.

“I think we’ve pretty much established that’s bound to happen when you have the kind of dreams I have. I think I’ve actually been pretty lucky so far.”

“I still don’t like it,” Sherlock muttered as he trailed his hand lightly over the large bruise covering most of John’s right flank where he’d cracked his ribs before it wandered over to his shoulder where the mangled scar tissue from the bullet he’d received in Afghanistan stood out like a sore thumb.

John shuddered at the contact. No one, apart from doctors and nurses, had ever touched him there, and even those had been cold, professional touches, not the loving, feathery caresses Sherlock was bestowing upon him.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head but his breathing was becoming erratic again. If Sherlock didn’t stop touching him like that everywhere… John all but fled the bathroom, his towel flapping behind him. but he groaned when he had to pause in his flight to his bedroom, belatedly remembering he had to overcome the narrow staircase to get there.

 

Once John had gotten his body back under control and dressed in his own clothes, favoring his warmest jumper and hoping Sherlock didn’t set this one on fire, he went back down and puttered in the kitchen to put breakfast together. Sherlock had remembered to put food in the fridge instead of bodyparts, for which he was eternally grateful, not to mention surprised. Sherlock joined him in the kitchen soon after to help him out, which mostly consisted in staying out of the way since even with cooking, Sherlock tended to become a bit too experimental for John’s taste. Sherlock made conversation instead.

The way Sherlock explained it, and the way John understood it, The Dream did not change by merely planning a solution. the way John had done before. Put otherwise, words are wind. You had to “actively modify the parameters beforehand” to make an impression on the vision, what Sherlock had called creating a paradox like the jumper experiment. Which explained why not only John had been wearing a different jumper, but that he had been wearing the one Sherlock had offered him as reparation. They had already brought about a second modification without meaning to, a kind of ripple effect, and Sherlock was now very interested in creating a larger ripple effect, more on the scale of a tsunami, in fact. John smiled, because, of course he would.

“Any idea of how you plan on doing that?” he asked with raised eyebrows as he tried to tempt Sherlock with a strip of bacon with his buttered toast.

Sherlock bit in the piece of bacon and grimaced, placing it back in John’s plate.

“Several, in fact but it’ll take some time to put in place. We still have time right?”

“We should have another week at the very least. But that’s just an average of the previous dreams at this stage. There’s no way to be certain. It could be happening tomorrow, for all we know,” John warned sternly.

“I’ll have everything ready by tomorrow,” Sherlock promised and smiled snidely before he captured John’s hand in his own across the table.

John blushed and felt very guilty a few minutes later when he had to explain to Sherlock that he actually needed that hand to eat his breakfast.

  
  
  
  
  



	7. Change of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear firend Abe, (A_Sherlocked__Girl) gave her seal of approval for the next two chapters so I'm updating earlier than planned, lucky you. You should go sing her praises and read her stories :p
> 
> Thanks to you all for your support. Gotta admit you're all awesome. This fic has now become my most popular story and that makes me all fluffy and happy inside even if I still look like a harpy on the outside.

John didn’t wake up that night. He was back in his own room now, in his own bed that didn’t smell like he was being surrounded by Sherlock. Not that is was unpleasant, on the contrary, but it wasn’t conducive to sleep. Besides, he could get up a ruddy flight of stairs now, he wasn’t as tired as he’d been and his knees were just that bit little better. But somehow, he still woke up to Sherlock’s face hovering over him in the morning. He was pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless.

“Whu?” was as eloquent as he could be expected to be under the circumstances.

“So?” Sherlock urged, as if his question was so obvious it didn’t even need to be put into a full sentence..

John blinked the sleep out of his eyes, yawned and considered turning over to sleep some more. He felt like he hadn’t slept this deeply in forever... That thought was enough to startle him completely into wakefulness.

“Fuck!” It still wasn’t very eloquent but it resumed perfectly his feelings at that moment. “What in the  blazes did you do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned. He actually looked affronted.

“The Dream! You broke The Dream!” John exclaimed.

Panic started to settle in as he understood it meant he wouldn’t be able to protect Sherlock anymore and he jumped out of his bed, ignoring his protesting injuries, to pace like a caged animal from his window to his door, while Sherlock did the opposite and lounged in his bed like some lazy, overgrown cat, his eyes following him around. John kicked his slipper just to vent off some of his frustration, and paced some more. Sure, he didn’t like having the Dreams before, they even scared him a bit, but now that the pattern was broken, he wanted them back. God knows what would happen without them.

“Broke it? How can you break it? It’s…” Sherlock waved his fingers in the air. “Immaterial.”

“I didn’t have that Dream. The trap in the warehouse. I should’ve had it again.”

“That’s not so bad,” Sherlock chuckled, earning himself a glare from the very unamused doctor. “What did you dream of then?”

“Nothing,” John said shortly before his eyebrows knit together. “Well, no. Not nothing. Like… like when a Dream resets. Less even. Just colours, sounds, movement… I usually get at least a glimpse of you now, even in the early stages, however brief and blurry. I’m not sure, maybe it wasn’t even one of those Dreams, maybe it was just a regular dream! A normal dream, Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped off the bed in one graceful movement and placed himself right in the path John was burning a trail into with his frantic pacing and pulled him into a hug. John stiffened for all of two seconds, still unused to such overwhelming human contact, before he melted against him, just barely managing to hold back a sigh, but damn it if it didn’t feel good. Unbelievably good. And right. It’s like he was made to be hugged by Sherlock the way he fit into his arms and he basked in the warmth until all the tension drained right out of him.

“Better?” Sherlock asked as if he had been soothing a petulant child, but instead of feeling affronted, John just nodded. He had been overreacting, after all. “We can just wait until tomorrow, see if your Dream comes back. We still have  time, remember.”

John pushed himself gently out of Sherlock’s arms to look up at him. The other man looked completely serene.

“But what if it doesn’t come back?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Then we just live our regular lives. Have dreams like regular people.”

“Isn’t that… I don’t know… Dull?” John asked uncertainly.

He’d heard Sherlock complain a lot when he found things dull, boring, tedious, pedestrian. He’d even used the word “blah” once, when he’d stumbled upon Lestrade trying to get him interested in a high-profile kidnapping. Just...blah. Lestrade had not been pleased and had threatened not to ask Sherlock on another case for two weeks after that. Threat he had quickly dropped since he had asked for Sherlock’s help on the suicide-murders soon after.

But what if Sherlock found him boring now that he didn’t have his Dreams. Would he get rid of him now? Ask him to move out? He knew Sherlock wasn’t that fickle but the irrational fear coated every good thing that was going on in his life right now, distorting them into hideous fears that all involved Sherlock leaving him behind.

“I don’t think you know how to be dull, John,” Sherlock answered, his eyes crinkling. “And there’s always The Work to keep us busy. We’ll just have to deal with the villains as they come and fall into traps the regular way. And then get out of them, of course. I have a feeling we’ll always make it out as a team, and I know you’ll have my back, with or without your Dreams.”

John huffed a half-hearted laugh at that. Sherlock was so carefree in his own weird way, even in matters of life and death, but he was being so earnest right now, his eyes shining so bright and hopeful that it made John’s stomach do a triple back-flip. A team. He still wanted them to be a team.

“Yeah, I’ll have your back, Sherlock,” John promised, looking him square in the eyes. “I’ll always have your back.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Dream of Moriarty’s trap did not return and the confused swirl of images that flashed through his mind during his sleep was changing too much from one night to the next to make any sort of sense out of it. As a result, John was continually worried, and Sherlock was trying to distract him. He knew that was the only reason the consulting detective had accepted a case as mundane as a missing person. But the man who had disappeared was a childhood friend of Lestrade’s and the DI did not believe that he had just up and left his family. It wasn’t his style, according to Lestrade but he had not found a single clue as to where he had disappeared off to, and thus, had come to Sherlock for help.

Lestrade had visibly come to 221B Baker Street ready to fight tooth and nail to convince him to accept the case so he was shocked into silence when Sherlock accepted immediately and pushed Lestrade and John out of the door because apparently “The game is on!”, whatever that meant.

Thankfully, John wasn’t as sore as he used to be and he only had to be careful about his ribs now.

“You sure you should be coming along?” Lestrade asked him with a worried frown as he crowded in the taxi after Sherlock and him, so he was sandwiched between the two taller men.

Apparently, Sherlock would not sit in a police car, however more practical it was and it must have been a long time argument between the two detectives because Lestrade quickly gave up on his car and left it sitting on the kerb. John wasn’t about to tell Lestrade Sherlock had only accepted the case for his sake, trying to distract him from his dreams, or lack thereof.

“Sure. Almost as good as new,” John answered with the fakest of smiles plastered across his face.

He still wasn’t very good at lying and the wince he gave as the taxi hit a pothole was a bit of a giveaway.

“Yeah, right,” Lestrade answered dubiously, taking in the faded bruises still visible on his face. He cleared his throat. “So... Mira, Bran’s wife, will be there when we arrive, but she sent the two kids away to her parents in Ireland until things died down here. I might have gone a bit...uh...overboard with the investigation, so she’s not very happy with me. This is my last chance before Bran’s case goes on the backburner, and that’s as good as becoming a cold case. I can’t let that happen… give up on Bran. He deserves better.”

“Shouldn’t his wife be happy that you put so much means and efforts into finding her husband? It’s not even your division,” John asked, surprised. God knows he’d move heaven and earth if Sherlock disappeared. Hell, he’d even do it for Harry and they did not get along.

“Well, Mira never really liked me, and she’s persuaded he abandoned her for some reason.”

“Rocky marriage?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Not that I know of, but Bran has always been a bit quiet where his personal life is concerned. He’s shy, you know, but he’s a sweet guy, loves his kids, never has a harsh word for anyone. Honestly, that guy is a saint.”

“Boring,” Sherlock muttered, and John slapped him lightly in the arm, lest he had forgotten the man Lestrade was talking about was a personal friend of his and not just some random stranger, but he only smiled at the contact and caught John’s hand in his own, keeping it tucked between them. John only managed to keep his blush under control because Lestrade, sitting on his other side, could not see the two of them holding hands like some lovestruck teenagers, but it was a close thing.

The cab finally slowed to a stop and they found a middle-aged woman standing in front of the quaint little gate that lead to the porch of her small home with her arms crossed over her chest and a mulish expression on her face. It was clear they were not welcome and the woman, Mira no doubt, looked liked she was trying to protect the oncoming invasion of her home with her body.

“Greg,” she said tersely. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

Lestrade frowned.

“I’d say I haven’t done enough, Mira,” he groused, not even bothering to greet her which surprised John. He didn’t know the DI well, but he’d always been polite even when he was a bit gruff. “Unless you’ve heard from Bran.”

The woman shook her auburn curls, paling slightly.

“Thought not. The case is still open and I brought our consulting detective to lend a hand. It won’t take long.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said warmly, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Sherlock held Mira’s small hand longer than necessary while he crooned reassuring words into her ears.

John almost choked in disbelief. Sherlock was being overly kind, almost flirty. It was… sickening, to be honest, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the twinge of jealousy he felt or because he realized how good of an actor Sherlock could be when he put his mind to it. He just hoped Sherlock didn’t use the same tricks on him. Lestrade looked equally confused but just shrugged when he met John’s eyes, and they followed the other pair into the house, accepting tea from their now more gracious hostess.

“So tell me, Mira,” Sherlock purred from the sofa he shared with the woman. “It must be quite a relief not having Bran around. From what he said, he ran quite a tight ship around here.”

John winced at Sherlock’s abruptness. He might as well have slapped the woman given her expression.

“What?” Mira exclaimed, her eyes wide in real surprise. It was the first show of real emotion she’d shown up to now. “No. No, Bran wasn’t like that! He wasn’t a… a penny-pincher! Overly cautious, maybe but never greedy. You know that, Greg!”

“Now, now,” Sherlock said, patting her hand before standing up and walking seemingly at random  around the room, his eyes locked on Mira’s. “If the crime is not motivated by love, it is caused by money.”

“Wait, Sherlock. I never said anything about a crime,” Lestrade intervened and earned himself the first sign of gratefulness from the supposedly bereft wife.

Sherlock ignored the DI’s protest and continued moving about the room, until he stopped near a laptop. John looked between Sherlock and Mira. The first looked smug while the latter seemed horrified.

“Looks like I know where to find the answers,” Sherlock said, sitting in front of the laptop, opening it and starting to crack the password.

“You can’t do that!” Mira exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger at him. “He can’t do that!”

Lestrade shrugged.

“He’s Sherlock Holmes. He does whatever the hell he wants. He even started a fire in Scotland Yard once and it wasn’t an accident."

John was hard pressed not to laugh at that tidbit of information and the DI's resigned expression. It looked like he had abandoned trying to discipline the younger man a long time ago and just went along with whatever craziness he caused.

They were interrupted by a loud snort coming from Sherlock and they all turned to look at him.

"Your children's names are not a valid password, Mrs Reed," he said as he scanned the computer, seemingly sucking out the information he needed out of the screen itself, like some kind of modern day vampire that fed on data.

"Gambling. Obvious. Is that why your husband was furious with you? You lost his life savings... No... even more than that. You owe money that you don’t have. That's bound to cause some friction in a marriage."

Mira was becoming undone with every new accusation, until she was a sobbing mess. John would have felt bad for her if she hadn't suddenly become the prime suspect in her husband's suspicious disappearance. And Sherlock was brilliant, just mind-blowingly brilliant.

"He... He wasn't..." she stuttered, her voice just as broken as her appearance. She wasn't pretending anymore.

"The past tense again, Mrs Reed? Won't you ever learn?" Sherlock tutted.

Mira heaved a huge sob that had her whole frame shudder convulsively.

"Sherlock, you've got to let her breathe a little if you want her to confess," John teased.

"Good point, John. Well, Mira? It won't be difficult to make a case against you, as you can see, so why don't you tell us what happened to your husband?"

She was trembling all over, hugging herself as if she was trying to keep the warmth from escaping her and just when it looked like she wouldn't, couldn't speak, she did.

"Bran... He didn't even... He wasn't even angry. He should've... It's all my fault."

John glanced at the DI. He wasn't sure that counted as a confession. But the DI wasn't the one sitting in the overstuffed armchair next to his right now, it was only Greg, the man who had just learned his childhood friend was dead. He was white as a sheet and was clutching the armchair in an iron grip. John who was closest, reached over to squeeze his hand. Lestrade was probably in shock but letting him know they - well, no, maybe not Sherlock - but that he was there if he needed support was the least he could do.

"Even after what I'd done, all that money I lost... The money I owed..." she whispered fearfully. "Bran...he still wanted to protect me."

"Of course!" Sherlock shouted, startling everyone in the room. Watching Sherlock solving a crime was like watching a very dramatic stage performance at the theatre. "I wondered how you could have subdued your husband, he's quite a lot stronger than you. Poison is always a possibility, of course -"

"Sherlock!" John intervened once more and he nodded in direction of Lestrade. Sherlock at least had the decency to look abashed. Gloating was just not on right now.

“Uhm, right. Please continue, Mrs Reed.” Sherlock said.

“I stopped. The gambling. But it was already too late. I owed so much… so much money. I sold my jewelry but it wasn’t enough so I borrowed money from these people. I had to. I didn’t want Bran to know… I was...scared, and desperate. But I couldn’t pay them back soon enough. They-” Another sob escaped her but she covered her mouth with her hands, trying to get back under control to finish her tale. “They threatened me… Then, they showed up here, and Bran came back from work and just stepped in. Told them he’d call…”

She looked at Lestrade.

“He’d call the cops on them.”

It was obvious what had happened after that. They didn’t even need Sherlock’s very visual description. How he knew exactly what had happened in the brief struggle that had led to Mr Reed’s death from a few details he’d gleaned as he walked around the living room and hallway was a mystery. He truly was a genius. A mad genius with a beautiful mind.

“But I don’t understand,” Lestrade said, interrupting them. “Where is the body and why didn’t you call me Mira? Tell me the truth? If you’re just scared, I would have protected you.”

Mira cried, mumbling that he didn’t understand, so Sherlock continued.

“The body is in the garden as evidenced by the traces you can find between the floorboards cracks. Washed but not thoroughly enough. I bet you will find blood under the traces of mud there too. Not that you need the evidence.”

John coughed, his meaning clear.

“Yes, well, “Sherlock resumed, after having peered at the window . “You should find Bran’s remain under that large tree’s roots. There’s a spot that has obviously been stirred. Good job with the grass but the moss is missing. Ans she hasn’t called you, Lestrade, because the children are not with their grandparents in Ireland, are they, Mrs Reed?”

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade exclaimed, standing up so suddenly his heavy armchair almost toppled over. “You left Rob and Ned with those monsters? Are you an idiot? How do you even know they’re alive?”

“They… they call everyday. Let me talk to them. Make sure I keep my end of the bargain.”

“Paying up and shutting up?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

Mrs Reed nodded, her face all red, snotty and puffy. Lestrade was regaining some colour now too, but it was more of an angry red and John thought the DI might just throttle the woman, but he whipped out his phone and started barking orders in his phone instead.

“You can’t!” Mira wailed, springing up from the sofa to plead with Lestrade. “They’ll know! They’ll hurt my babies!”

“He’s not quite as idiotic as you,” Sherlock snarled and pushed her back down. “Now, shut up. I’m thinking.”

“Just do as the man says, Mira, and shut up,” Lestrade growled.

 

What had only been a missing person case when they'd set out earlier had quickly turned into a murder and the kidnapping of two young children, not to mention the blackmail. John was entertained alright, but he was also glad he'd managed to grab his gun this morning before Sherlock had thrown them out of the flat. Especially now that he was so uncertain of what the future held. Normally, no Dream meant Sherlock wasn't in any mortal peril, but now he wasn't so sure. He may be. John would have to be vigilant. Do it the regular way, as Sherlock had said. John could do it. He wasn’t a klutz, he was a highly trained soldier for God’s sake, he should manage to keep one man alive. Even if that man was trouble-magnet Sherlock Holmes.

John liked at his… what? Flatmate? Friend? Protégé? Boyfriend? He wasn’t exactly sure, but he looked at him fondly nonetheless. His tall frame was currently bent over a spot of the doorframe and- wait... Was he licking that doorframe? That was kinda gross, although his body reacted entirely differently at the sight of the pink tip of his tongue darting out.

Focus, John! Kidnapped children, remember?

The doorbell rang and Mrs Reed jumped in her seat with a strangled whimper.

"That's Detectives Donovan and Dimmock. Mira, go greet them at the door like they're old friends, and be convincing about it," Lestrade snapped.

The woman jumped to attention and quickly wiped her face clean with the handkerchief she'd been twisting in her hands since she turned into a sobbing mess. It wasn't much of an improvement but at least she was trying. Soon after, Donovan, the annoying female inspector who had looked down at him, and a younger man who had to be Detective Dimmock joined them in the living room and had a hushed but lively discussion, or argument, with Lestrade. They'd waved in turn at Sherlock, at him, then Mira and the tall tree outside. It wasn't difficult to get their meaning, and no one was happy.

Except maybe Sherlock, he seemed pleased by something.

"Freaks," Donovan greeted, if you can call it that, as she approached, now that she was up to date with  the case.

"I think she's got your number, John," Sherlock said cheekily as he shook hands with the other inspector, completely ignoring what the younger man was telling him. Something trite and polite, no doubt. The young man seemed a bit star-struck by Sherlock, not that he’d blame him.

"Dimmock," the young DI said as he shook hands with John this time. "What've you ever done to piss off the sergeant?"

"Donovan?" John crinkled his brow, thinking back. "Oh, right. I did threaten her with bodily harm, I suppose, but she wasn’t being very cooperative."

Dimmock scuttled off to stand near Lestrade after that. Clearly, he was regretting being here.

"Right," Sherlock said. "If we're finished losing time with social niceties, maybe we could focus on the children."

No one had any objections, not even to the fact that he was apparently heading this operation. Sherlock just radiated natural leadership. Besides, he was the brain of the operation, anyone could see that.

"First, Bran will have to wait for a bit before he is...extracted."

That was almost tactful coming from Sherlock, who was waiting for a nod of agreement from Lestrade before he continued.

"Good. It would have drawn too much attention. Now, I have narrowed down the geographical area the kidnappers came from, we only have to hope they have taken the children to that same place or it will take ages before we catch their trail again. Donovan, you should take that part in charge immediately: track the phone number, create the portraits, check out that pub where they first made contact... You know the drill. You're actually good at that.”

Sherlock completely missed Donovan’s gobsmacked expression at what had to be praise coming from him, but John managed to snap a picture. It would surely get a smile out of Sherlock. The woman had her jaw hanging open and it wasn’t a figure of speech.

“Lestrade, I'd rather you stayed with Mrs Reed for when the kidnappers contact her again. You're too close to the victims anyway, your lack of focus will only hamper us. And you..." Sherlock drew a blank as he looked at the youngest Scotland Yard detective. "Who are you again?"

"Erm… Detective Inspector Dimmock. I just- never mind. How can I help?"

"Dig out any profile registered at the Yard for us that has to do with a gang of thugs operating in northern London, or skirting the edges. Nothing like murder or kidnapping though. They're being very, very careful so this is probably a first for them. Search for extortion, blackmail, burglary, assault. Close knit group, maybe brothers, cousins... Something like that."

Sherlock finally stopped. Everyone, John included, was gawking at him. Not only because he could speak for an incredibly long period of time without needing to catch his breath, but how the hell had he gotten so much information just from licking the doorframe? However, everyone just accepted his word and set off to do their assigned tasks.

“We’re going after the thugs, I imagine?” John asked, approaching Sherlock.

“Elementary, John. Ready?” he asked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled down at him.

John smiled back. Yes, Sherlock was definitely getting off on this, but then, so was he. He motioned vaguely at his back to indicate that he had his gun, and they were off again

  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. A Defect in Self-Preservation

“Did you really get all that just from licking the doorframe?” John asked as he clambered out of the cab. He didn’t trust cabbies enough to talk in front of them. Not anymore

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous, John. I also analyzed the mud and residues they’d left on the entrance mat. That added to the location Mrs Reed first sought them out, it was evident that this particular group operates around here. But we’ll have to blunder around for a while until either Donovan or Dimmock find something, but we could get lucky. There aren’t that many places where you can possibly keep kidnapped children. Those things are loud, right?”

John chuckled.

“Yes, Sherlock. Quite loud. You’d hate it. Shall we just walk around and keep an ear out for crying children then?”

Sherlock gave him that look that meant he was being particularly thick.

“There are exactly two abandoned factories, one bomb shelter, one abandoned construction site and a condemned underground parking lot in this area alone. I think those are our best bets for now. We’ll check out if either of those show any sign of activity. And if there is a pond or deep puddles  nearby.”

John just nodded. He didn’t dare ask about the pond. He didn’t want to get _that look_ again.

 

* * *

 

 

Surprisingly, it was Dimmock who got them on the right track. God knows how he did it so fast, but the young DI fished out the files of a group of childhood friends who’d first wreaked havoc on their neighbourhood: vandalism and petty theft mostly, things they could get away with under the guise of being turbulent children. Then, as they grew older, they started getting out of control, earning themselves sentence after sentence for violence, bar brawling, extortion, drugs and drug dealing. Nothing so noteworthy that they had gotten the attention of Scotland Yard, but they did fit Sherlock’s requirements quite neatly. Unfortunately, this merry little band were known as The Rats.

“Charming,” Sherlock commented, before they stared at each other and then at their feet, or rather at the manhole a couple of feet away.

“Surely not,” John muttered, not relishing the thought of traipsing around the sewers at all.

“It’s only logical,” Sherlock replied while he wrote a text, his fingers gliding easily over the screen.

“Wait… did you just quote Star Trek to me?”

“What’s Star Trek? It sounds stupid.”

“Right, okay. We’ll have to brush up on your pop culture when we get this case over with. Shall we then?” John asked, mock bowing towards the manhole as if he was inviting Sherlock to a fine restaurant.

“I’m not walking aimlessly around in the sewers. My dignity will never live it down, and neither will my coat. No, I’ll ask my rats to sniff out those Rats.”

“Try to be more cryptic why don’t you, Sherlock?” John said fondly

Ten minutes later, John followed Sherlock down the street and wondered if they were now looking for a better sewer access, some rats or still looking for the children, when a figure appeared out of the gloomy shadows of the street. John squinted, but the figure was shrouded in a very large hoodie that hid its features completely. It could be anyone. It could be Moriarty for all he knew. It wasn’t a chance encounter, that much, at least, was clear, because the figure headed straight for them even though they were standing right in the middle of the empty street instead of the pavement. John felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end and he stepped between the approaching figure and Sherlock without a second’s hesitation, fingering his gun at the back of his waistband, until he felt Sherlock lean over him, his body flush against his and his lips brushing his ear.

"Your protectiveness is... enticing, John, but please don’t shoot him. I do believe that is our guide," he murmured.

The figure was very close now and flipped off his hoodie, revealing a youngish but gaunt face. The ravages of drugs and hard living etched in every line of the stranger's face. He smiled at Sherlock, revealing his crooked teeth, before looking John up and down. John had the uncanny feeling he was reading every little detail on him like Sherlock did, his large eyes darting left and right, up and down, seeming to pick up and catalogue every one of his bruises and scrapes, his frayed coat, the scuffs and mud on his shoes. John scowled at the young man and he finally turned his gaze away.

"Hey boss, Rosie send me over, said you were looking for them big rats?" he asked, straight to the point.

"Wiggins," Sherlock replied with the barest hint of affection he'd only heard him direct at Mrs Hudson before. "Did you lose your phone, again?"

"I was mugged," Wiggins said, his hands gesturing wildly. "Honest."

Sherlock snorted and that was the end of what Sherlock would consider small talk, despite the rather dire topic. He then started interrogating the boy about the gang known as the Rats.

"Bunch of bloody lunatics if you ask me. They’d cut yer throat as soon as look at ye. Which is good news for you, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded as if that made perfect sense, but it really didn't. How could it be good that the people they were after were violent and ruthless thugs with a fondness for knives? Especially since they had children at their mercy. Sherlock gave him that look  again and it was really starting to grate on his nerves.

“It means my homeless network always know exactly where they are so they can stay clear of them and avoid trouble," Sherlock explained, rather patiently than condescendingly, but still, John was rather irked that everything had to be explained to him, but he also knew that Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered explaining or would have been much harsher if John had been one of Scotland Yard’s inspectors, so he just nodded his understanding.

It did make sense, John had to admit, and more importantly, it meant they could find the children, and quickly, before the Rats realized they were onto them and decided to get rid of the ‘evidence’.

“Let’s go then,” John said

Wiggins took them through passages and shortcuts you wouldn’t even have guessed existed next to the well lit streets nearby. John was just glad Sherlock hadn’t decided to get himself murdered in one of these places during one of his previous Dreams or he would never have found him… That was just too terrible to contemplate and he pushed the thought aside. There were more important things to consider now. Finally, Wiggins made them stop at the corner of a building and peeked around.

“‘kay, this is the place. They’ve been there for longer than usual and someone’s always makin’ the rounds. Rosie’s pretty pissed ‘cause she left somethin’ there last time around and can’t get it back. She’ll owe you if you flush’em out,” Wiggins said pointing at a drab ground floor brick construction that might have been a home or a shop once but had been transformed into a nightclub at some time in the past, it’s few windows walled in and a large washed-out sign indicating they had arrived at ‘The Music Box’.

“Do we call Lestrade for back-up?” John asked. “I don’t see how we can get into that place without getting caught.”

“No,” Sherlock answered. “Not until we know the children are there and are out of harm’s way. We’ll just end up with a hostage situation if the police shows up now, if even that.”

He stared at the building for a while, using the fire escape of the building they were hiding behind to have a better view of the Music Box, and came back down with a grin that was not reassuring at all.

“We’ll need a distraction,” he declared. “Wiggins, can you lit a fire under the ventilation vent over on that side in fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” Wiggins replied with a shrug.

“Good, take cover after that, but hang around, if we’re not back out after thirty minutes, call-” Sherlock interrupted himself to order John to give his phone to the homeless boy, which he did very, very reluctantly. “Call Lestrade. His number is in the contacts. Thirty minutes after you lit that fire. Got it?”

Wiggins nodded.

“Don’t get mugged.” John groused, following Sherlock out of their hiding place. “I happen to like that phone.”

“Sure, chief,” Wiggins said, but his wink did not reassure him.

Sherlock made them take a wide berth around the Music Box until they were at the back of it. He used a dumpster pushed against the wall to heave himself onto the roof and disappeared from view, before his head popped back over the edge.

“What are you waiting for, John?”

“Well, you may have noticed I’m just a tad bit shorter than you,” John growled from atop the dumpster he had just managed to climb onto using a pile of old tires abandoned next to it to help him up.

But from there he was truly stuck. Unlike Sherlock with his unnaturally long legs and arms, he couldn’t reach the ledge of the flat roof.

“Oh, I noticed,” Sherlock replied with an unreadable face and extended a hand down to help boost John up the wall and onto the roof where he toppled atop Sherlock, straddling him.

John felt his heart beat faster as he looked down at Sherlock, his curls fanned out around him and his face flushed. All right, neither the right time nor the right place. John hurriedly picked himself up and looked around, finding a trap door set in the middle of the roof, obviously the point of entry Sherlock had found.

“Do you think they know about this?” John asked, worriedly.

If they were discovered too soon, the children would still be in danger but Sherlock didn’t seem overly concerned.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” he replied, pulling the thing open and peering in.

It was dark, they’d be groping their way around with no idea of the building’s layout, of where the children were kept, and of how many or even where their captors were. Great. Just the worst case scenario, right? John pushed Sherlock back when it looked like he was going to just jump down the proverbial rabbit hole and pulled his gun out.

“You’re going to have to give me a hand down anyway,” John explained to stave off any protests and smirked when Sherlock found nothing to reply to that.

While Sherlock lowered him down the hole, John reflected he should always follow Sherlock around with a stepladder and some rope. The list would no doubt grow longer the more time he spent running after Sherlock and he added Mary Poppins’ magical bag at the very top of his list. The room they landed in was just some kind of janitor’s cupboard with empty shelves and a forlorn broom missing half its shaft. No wonder it had seemed so dark, it had probably not been used in years.

Sherlock appeared next to him in a woosh of air and clothes. The git had just jumped through the hole after all. He had absolutely no concept of self preservation. The corridor on the other side of their cupboard was empty but Sherlock made them wait until they heard a commotion: men running and shouting.

“Wiggins,” Sherlock smirked and slipped out.

At least, they now knew where everyone was, minus the children, and approximately where they had been . Given they’d probably keep their hostages nearby, they quickly narrowed down the part of the building they’d need to search and diligently opened door after door until they arrived in a vast room where they got stuck behind some kind of booth while two men walked by.

“Just some kids setting fire to the trashcan,” one said.

“Yeah and if I find ‘em, I’ll wring their scrawny little neck,” the other said. “Go wake the brats, it’s time for the call.”

John looked at Sherlock and they smiled. They’d gotten the right place, the kids were still okay and these morons suspected nothing. John checked his watch. Twenty minutes until Wiggins called Lestrade. That gave them half an hour before the police showed up. The problem was that they still didn’t know how many Rats there were. Two at least, probably a third, either taking care of the fire or doing his rounds. But he’d bet there were at least four, minimum.

The man giving orders walked to a back room while the first walked towards their booth and John held his breath, folding himself further into the small place, but the thug went by without a second glance and opened the door to the lady’s bathroom. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, not believing their luck and they followed suit, sticking to the shadows as much as possible while they crept silently towards the swinging door. They’d barred it with an old plank lying against the wall. John could have kicked himself free from there but not two young children.

“How do you want to do this?” John asked, because even if the thug was alone in there, he still had two kids with him and although hadn’t seen a gun, he would most likely have a knife on him.

“Bluff?” Sherlock replied and pushed the door open.

They didn’t have much time to make elaborate plans anyway. The man glanced around at the sound of the door opening and must have been expecting one of his friends because his expression turned from one of boredom to panicked surprise in the blink of an eye. He scrambled away to put his back to the wall, the two children behind him. They looked so dirty and tired, the youngest even looked sickly and was still sleeping despite the noise.

“Police,” Sherlock drawled flashing a badge he knew to be Lestrade’s while John pointed his gun at the man. “Move away from the children and put your hands in the air. You’re surrounded.”

John could easily shoot him, he was just a few feet away, but that was something he’d rather avoid doing in front of children, and he could see Sherlock was slowly but inexorably making his way closer to the man without giving any evidence that he was doing so.

The thug looked behind them, but he still hadn’t raised his hands. He clearly didn’t believe them and John saw his muscles tense, he was about to do something stupid. But before anyone could really act, the oldest boy kicked his captor in the crotch and he crumpled to the floor, whimpering and holding his privates with both hands. John immediately whacked him behind the head with the butt of his pistol, making sure the man was out like a light, then kneeled in front of the boy so he wouldn’t look too scary.

“You’re… Ned, right?” The boy nodded. “Your mom sent us.” Blatant lie. “Are you okay?” Another nod.

“Rob is sick,” Ned finally said, pointing at his little brother with a trembling finger. “He threw up and the bad men got mad.”

Rob had a slight fever, maybe something he ate. Food poisoning wouldn’t be surprising given the dump they’d been dragged to. John checked his watch: twenty minutes before the police showed up. He scooped Rob up in his arms. He made a grimace at his limp and clammy body and wished they could get him out sooner. He turned to see Sherlock taking Ned’s hand, leading their group to the door and peering out. They didn’t have much choice of an escape but back through the way they’d come and they managed to get back to the janitor’s cupboard just in time: there were new shouts from behind them meaning they knew the children were missing.

Twelve minutes. It seemed much too long.

“How are we going to get back up there?” John asked, darting nervous glances at the door, the flimsy piece of wood the only protection against the gang of thugs. They might not think to look for them in the rather small space, but they’d get to it eventually.

“If we can get you up first, I can then hand you the children and you can pull them back up,” Sherlock started and held up a hand when John was about to protest. “We get the children to safety first, Lestrade will come in time for me.”

John scowled. He really hated that plan.

_But you didn’t dream of him dying here, so he’ll be okay. Sherlock will be okay._

He kept repeating himself that as he climbed over Sherlock’s body -not the way he’d imagined doing this- and heaved himself out through the hole. He was just glad he was still rather in good shape since his return to civilian life. Only his injuries were making him slow but adrenaline was dulling the pain rather efficiently.

“Okay, Ned first,” John said.

He wanted to see how difficult it was going to be before he tried it with an unconscious kid. But he’d worried over nothing. The boy was ridiculously light and easy to pull up to the roof. Rob was trickier since he was so limp but still relatively easy. Sherlock on the other hand… than much strain on his bad shoulder… not to mention his still healing ribs...

Five minutes

“I don’t know if I’ll manage to pull you up, Sherlock,” he admitted, biting his lip, as he extended his hand down. And then the door to the janitor’s cupboard was kicked open.

John couldn’t make out what was happening but he could hear the scuffle and imagined only too well what was going on down in the darkness below. He looked back at the children, Ned cradling his baby brother in his arms.

“Stay there, don’t move from the roof. The police will be there in five minutes, you can wave at them when you see them.”

And then he jumped down the rabbit hole. Alice never mentioned the landing hurt like a bitch, but she probably didn’t get punched for her trouble either. John stumbled back, he hurt everywhere and his ribs were making breathing difficult.

_Well, that had been a stupid decision._

He tried to make out where his attacker and Sherlock were. He was not risking a stray bullet in these conditions.

_He’ll be okay, no dream, he’ll be okay._

It might even go through the roof of this dingy place and hit one of the kids. No gun, not now. But his attacker was approaching, looming over him as he was bent double and wheezing like an old man. John stepped back against the wall and his hand brushed against the broken broom he’d glimpsed earlier. He swung it at the man who had punched him and clearly hadn’t expected any resistance, hitting him across the jaw. John whacked him once more over the head while he had the advantage and he went down.

“Sherlock?” he called and followed the sounds of fighting out in the hallway where there was more light.

Sherlock appeared around the corner. His hair was in disarray and he was bleeding from his cheekbone.

“Thought I heard you,” he said, making his way back to him, and maybe it was relief, maybe it was just the way he casually said that, like they were back home and he’d called from the kitchen, but they started chuckling and before they knew it, they were both laughing uncontrollably, sitting in front of the janitor’s cupboard.

“Are we interrupting? We can come back later,” a voice said.

“Greg!” John exclaimed, high and giddy on adrenaline.

“About time,” Sherlock said, but he was still smiling.

“Did you get the kids off the roof?” John asked, pointing upwards

“Yeah,” Lestrade said with a frown, putting his gun away. “About that, remind me never to ask you to baby-sit.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ouch! That stings, you know?” Sherlock exclaimed when John dabbed the nasty cut on his cheekbone with a cotton.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose an eye, you know,” John muttered, prodding the cut more viciously.  “You could have just let him run off, Lestrade and his men would have caught him on his way out. You knew there was only one exit. Now, stop being such a baby, I bet you didn’t complain this much when you got stabbed.”

Absolutely no sense of self-preservation. How did he even get to the ripe old age of thirty-four? Maybe he’d had other protectors without ever knowing about them and they’d died before their time out of sheer worry at his lack of common sense. On second thought, Mycroft and Lestrade had probably had their fare share of worrying about the tall git since both seemed to have respectively less hair and more grey hair than they should.

“I don’t trust Scotland Yard to do their job,” Sherlock muttered, then squirmed on the edge of the bath where he was sitting and threw a wary glance at the cotton.

John rolled his eyes. Scotland Yard might not have Sherlock’s genius but they were perfectly capable of guarding a door.

“They couldn’t even keep that small child from molesting me,” Sherlock added as if to prove his point.

“It was a hug, Sherlock. It was cute.”

“He slobbered all over my trousers. They’re probably ruined now.”

“It still counts as a hug. You know, I’m going to get a picture of that and put it on display in the living room. Greg promised to send me a copy.”

“Ouch, John! I swear you’re not even trying to be gentle with that thing,” Sherlock growled again, trapping his hand in his larger one.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?” John teased.

“I’m hurting all over, it might take a while,” Sherlock replied, managing to keep a straight face somehow.

John chuckled, trying not to blush,  and pecked his cheek, just below the nasty cut he’d received.

“Get in the shower, you cheeky bastard. I’ll go make some tea.”

_Christ! Who knew Sherlock could flirt so outrageously?_

To think John had been afraid of scaring him off by being too forward. he was now seeing the error of his way. At this rate, Sherlock would be the one jumping his bones.

 

* * *

 

 

John had to admit that he hadn’t been agonizing over the Dream today like he had the last few days. Sherlock had successfully managed to keep him entertained since that morning by dragging him into a missing person case, turned murder and blackmail, turned kidnapping and infiltration mission. He hoped Sherlock never got too bored. God only knew what he’d get up to for the sake of entertainment.

But now that it was way past time to get some rest, uneasiness was washing over him once more and he was glancing warily up the staircase to his room. He wasn’t even sure if he was more afraid of having his Dream finally return and seeing Sherlock die another horrible death, or that his Dreams would still show nothing useful, stay broken as he’d started to think of it. Today had proved, if nothing else, that they could very well get out of sticky situations without any supernatural means.

_For God’s sake, Watson, you’re a veteran. You can’t be afraid to go to bed at your age._

“Right, I’m off to bed then,” he called over to Sherlock who was doing some new experiment with chalk, dust and other powder-like substances in the kitchen. For once it was just messy rather than  disgusting, as far as his experiments went, but Sherlock was just as absorbed by it as he had been with the microwaved eyeballs, so John wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get an answer.

It was to be expected that Sherlock had never managed to sustain any kind of relationship before. John didn’t mind his quirks, such as being too absorbed in his experiments to wish him goodnight or even take notice of his absence, but he had no doubt there were very few people in the world who’d be so accepting. It was part of who Sherlock was however, and John loved him just the way he was.

Loved him just the way he was? _Loved_ him?

_Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose._

John Watson never did things by halves after all, and even though he could not pinpoint the exact moment his loyalty, friendship, affection, attraction... Call it what you want because Sherlock just created such a turmoil of emotions in him, but the moment his feelings had turned into love of a deeper nature, he couldn’t say. However, he was not that surprised it had happened.

John walked up the stairs with a small smile playing on his lips, wishing he could still dream like normal people did because he had no doubt they would have been pleasant that night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, the next chapter might take longer in coming but please be patient :)


	9. An Unexpected Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Soooo sorry for the long delay in updating. You see, there was this racoon who came in while I was sleeping and stole my computer... (okay, so the first one to get that reference will be proclaimed genius of the month and receive a Cheekbones Award!)  
> And you should thank A_Sherlocked__Girl who made me bin the terrible first draft of this chapter. It really was ghastly.
> 
> So where are we at in the story, you ask? Here's a little refresher: 
> 
> Sherlock created a paradox that broke John's Dreams. To get John out of his maudling mood over his lack of visions, Sherlock takes him on a case at the bequest of Lestrade-murder, blackmail, kidnapping...nothing fancy- and solves it, of course, after much running and almost getting killed.
> 
> Now... enjoy :)

The next two weeks were abysmally normal. John insisted on using the term normal, not boring, normal. This is how people lived: they got up, took a quiet breakfast while reading the paper, went about their day with nothing more extraordinary happening other than finding a severed hand in their fridge, ordered take-out, watched some crap telly and went to bed again. If he started moaning about how dull and boring it was, like Sherlock did about every five minutes, his detective friend might find another seemingly boring case that might just get them killed again. Especially Sherlock, since he lacked any kind of self-preservation.

Their relationship, on the other hand, was growing by small leaps at the oddest of times. Sherlock, being the self-proclaimed sociopath, not that John believed it for a second himself, but still, he let Sherlock set the pace, being perfectly content himself with a tender or passionate kiss here and there, and the surprisingly sweet hand-holding or cuddling on the couch. It was almost as much as he could handle for now, Sherlock being Sherlock, turning every little mundane thing into something indecently intense.

But every now and then, Without warning, Sherlock would hunt him down and his fingers would become adventurous, digging under his clothes and trailing the lines of his body, his hands roaming over his back, hair or bum, or he would just plain tear his clothes off, as if he’d suddenly been overwhelmed by an itch to get more of John. And John didn’t complain, on the contrary, his body was very enthusiastic about letting Sherlock-the-Explorer get what he wanted, but not when one of his urges overtook him after he’d just harpooned a pig and was covered in blood, and certainly not when they had company. Although, John supposed Sherlock had done that on purpose just to get rid of his brother.

John sighed happily as he took a bite out of his burnt toast. He shouldn’t think about Sherlock when preparing meals, it always ended badly, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to Sherlock’s next bout of exploration.

“You look chipper today,” Sherlock mused, looking up from his microscope for the first time that morning. He’d been entirely too focused before that to notice John, his dopy smile, or the toaster coughing up noxious smoke. “No Dream?”

John shook his head. No Dream, not patches of sound and colour that made no sense but were at least an indication that something was in the making.

“Either you truly broke my ability with your paradoxes, or, I don’t know, maybe Moriarty and all the others psychopaths out there got bored of your apparent invulnerability.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Or maybe... I was reading that new book on Jack-the-Ripper… Yes, I know you find it ridiculous. Humour me. The murders suddenly ended, because the killer was interned in mental asylums until his death. Maybe something similar happened to Moriarty. God knows he belongs there, but maybe he got hit by a bus, or choked on a peanut. Either of those is fine by me… All I’m saying is that maybe we don’t have to worry about that particular threat anymore.”

“Wishful thinking, John,” Sherlock replied with a fond smile. “I agree his silence and lack of action since your escape is a bit strange, but I don’t doubt for a second he’s still out there. I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you.”

“But it’s been over three weeks!”

“Yes, and whatever he’s planning, we shouldn’t let our guard down. Even Mycroft is keeping a close eye on us. He seemed quite interested in the fellow too. He wouldn’t tell me why, though.”

John frowned. He thought they might have been granted an easy way out of their confrontation with the madman after reading that stupid book, but it was too much to hope that all the criminally insane  died rotting in a padded cell.

  
  


* * *

 

 

John was much less chipper as he went to the Tesco that afternoon. Out of milk again. John had no idea how the stuff disappeared so fast. He’d tried to catch Sherlock red-handed using it in his experiments, or emptying it down the drain or… something. But so far, no luck. The milk just vanished sometime during the night, and he was even starting to suspect the fridge itself.

John had meandered through the shop to find the odd items Sherlock had requested - and no, John had not asked what he needed a thousand toothpicks for, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He was trying to decide between two brands of biscuit that looked exactly the same to him, except for the price, when his phone ringed obnoxiously loudly. He really needed to find how to change that. Wiggins had returned his phone, granted, but he’d also found it funny to mess with his settings and put him the Tin Soldier song as his ringtone for some reason. He hadn’t even known you could put such old songs as a ringtone.

 

_“I'm a little tin soldier_

_that wants to jump into your fire”_

 

John juggled between his shopping basket, packets of biscuits and phone, but managed to cut it off before it went any further. He could feel a blush warm his cheeks though. Stupid Wiggins. How had he even known he was a soldier?

“Yes?” he said tersely. It wasn’t a number he knew, but he only had about five or six contacts saved on his phone, and it might be important.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Johnny boy?”

That voice… The blood that had coloured John’s cheeks moments ago, vanished in an instant and his mouth felt dry. How had that madman gotten his phone number? No, scratch that: why was he calling him? Why not Sherlock? Or had he already? The thought of Sherlock brought him out of his shocked silence.

“What do you want?” he spat.

“Oh, Johnny. Always so feisty. I just wanted to see if you would have a nice little chat with me over tea. Talk about old times and our common interest.”

“You’re even more delusional than I imagined if you thought I’d agree.”

“Uhm, yes. That’s why I’m sending you an incentive,” Moriarty replied just as his phone pinged.

John looked at it with puzzlement until he noticed the little icon indicating he had a text and it took him a couple of minutes to figure out how to open it without hanging up, but when he did, he wished he hadn’t. It was a picture of Harry, looking warily at the camera with her face squished against Moriarty’s lunatic face. Anger swelled in him like a tidal wave. Anger at the madman for getting his paws over his sister, but mostly anger at himself for not having thought of getting her any sort of protection, for not warning her a that a madman had taken an interest in him. John hadn’t worried about something like that happening to Sherlock because he was more than enough protected by both John and Mycroft, not to mention Sherlock could protect himself, but the thought had never even crossed his mind that Moriarty would go dig up his estranged sister to use as a pressure point against him. The Watson siblings didn’t get along, sure, but he didn’t want any harm to come to her, especially not because of him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“Johnny booooooy!” his phone called out with a shrill voice. “Are you still with me Johnny boy?”

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“I thought I made myself clear on that point: you. You will come nicely, no shenanigans like the last time. Is that clear?”

John nodded and croaked out a yes. He had no choice, but he could still alert Sherlock, send him a text, and there were the CCTVs right in front of the Tesco. Mycroft might be looking too.

“Good boy,” Moriarty cooed. “Now, give your phone to the nice man, follow his instructions and nothing will happen to your dear sister.”

A large gloved hand appeared in his line of vision and John looked up to see the tall muscled blond that had tried to shoot him in the middle of a crowded street when he’d escaped the car boot. Ruthless. Just great. John handed him his phone.

“Yes,” the blond said simply into the phone and hung up. John wasn’t surprised, since he had already gathered from their previous encounter that the man wasn’t much of a talker.

He fiddled with John’s phone for a bit and left it atop the shelves where no one would be able to find  it by accident, and then nudged John towards the back of the shop, where he doubted very much there were CCTV cameras. He was screwed. Sherlock wouldn’t even know he was gone before it was much too late, and if he was in the middle of one of his experiments or reorganizing his mind palace, he might not even notice until tonight and the trail would have gone cold by then. The shop’s security cameras would only show he’d gone willingly, and what would Sherlock make of that?

A car was waiting at the back, door open and engine running.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John muttered and the blond shrugged but looked slightly amused, the first sign John had seen that the man was actually human and not some kind of cyborg killing machine from the future.

The sleek black car waiting for them was the very same that Moriarty had used to kidnap him the first time around. Talk about a sick sense of humour. John reluctantly climbed in, the other man close behind him, and he looked glumly out of the window at the people going on with their lives without a clue about what was going on right next to them. He thought he would at least know where he was going this time around, but after about ten minutes of driving further away from the city center, the blond handed him a blindfold.

“Seriously?” John asked.

The other man didn’t even bother to reply, just looked at him with those emotionless eyes until he complied. John sat back in the comfy leather seat, trying to evaluate the distance and the turns they were taking, but for all he knew, the driver would take them around in circles just to get him confused, which he was.

Mission accomplished, one point for the bad guys!

 

“Johnny boy!” Moriarty exclaimed when he climbed blindly out of the car, which wasn’t helped by the fact that he was now handcuffed to the blond. Talk about paranoia.

But hearing those words, that blasted nickname… John flinched, taking a step back and colliding into the blond. He told himself it was because he was blindfolded and hadn’t expected the greeting, not because Moriarty’s mere voice was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. John took a deep breath and stood taller, not wanting to seem intimidated. No need to give his enemies more power over him.

“Where’s Harry?” he demanded.

“Oh, I never had her,” Moriarty answered dismissively, just as the blindfold came off his eyes.

John blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. ‘Warehouse’ was his first thought and he wanted to laugh at the predictability if he hadn’t found himself in such a dire situation because of his own stupidity. Sherlock would have seen straight through Moriarty’s lie… if it was one.

“I don’t trust you,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” Moriarty replied and handed him a phone.

It was ringing.

“Harry Watson speaking,” she announced, words clipped and to the point. Still at work, then. Not kidnapped by a madman, just going on with her everyday life.

“Harry? It’s John. I… I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“John? Well, That’s a surprise. You don’t call me nearly often enough, you know. Actually, I thought of calling you today, too. I met one of your friends at a club yesterday. Jim, or Tim? Something like that. Right creepy bastard if you ask me. Took a picture to send you. Is that why you called? Because if you’re trying to set us up, I might have to remind you-”

“No! God, no, Harry!” he exclaimed, effectively shutting her up because that image was just too disturbing to give voice to it. “In fact, if you see him again, run. He-”

John felt a gun nudge the small of his back.

“Bye, Harry. I… I do care about you, you know.”

Moriarty snatched his phone back, Harry’s voice still drifting out of it, and he smiled, or rather, showed his teeth, because there was nothing warm about his expression.

“See? I can be trusted. But I’m quite disappointed you were so easy to fool. I really don’t know what Sherlock sees in you. Well, not all of it. You have some skills I appreciate myself. Even Seb was impressed by your Houdini act and he’s not easily impressed, let me tell you.”

John huffed, but filed away the information he had gained about the blond’s name. However, if Moriarty was just there to mock him, he could just sod off.

“I thought there might have been a little more to you, so imagine my disappointment when I learned you were just his little fuck toy.”

John must have looked like he’d been slapped in the face because Moriarty gleefully continued his little monologue.

“Oh, yes, I know. Never thought I’d see the day Sherlock Holmes let himself be ruled by his flesh,” he said as he flipped through pictures of the both of them on his phone, showing them off to John. It was more along the lines of intimate gestures: holding hands or a stolen kiss when they thought no one was looking. Certainly not anything that could suggest he was Sherlock’s ‘fuck toy’ as Moriarty  so crudely put it, they were far from being that intimate, but the madman probably didn’t understand anything about love or relationships. Not that John would correct him. The more Moriarty was mistaken, the better it was for him, and for Sherlock.

“So what? You think that by taking me out of the picture, Sherlock is suddenly going to break down?” he scoffed.

“On the contrary,” Moriarty said gleefully. “I’m not getting rid of you, Johnny boy. You’re the grand prize. Much like you, Sherlock needs some incentive to come out and play with me.”

“You’re a sick bastard,” John spat and was rewarded with a sharp jab right in the kidney.

All right, so ‘Seb’ did not tolerate his boss being insulted to his face. Noted. John struggled to get upright again and glared at Moriarty.

“Take him down, Sebastian. And make sure he can’t escape this time. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last time, now, would we? I can’t wait to see the look on Sherlock’s face when he realizes I’ve taken away his precious toy. It is going to be soooooo much fun. I wonder if I should tell him myself? Because who knows how long it will take him to notice you’re gone? He’s not all that keen, is he?”

John clenched his jaw and said nothing, because the Moriarty was at least partly right in that regard, and Sebastian pulled him away after him, into the darkness.

John inspected the surroundings, trying to find any clue as to his location. He’d been wondering if this was the same warehouse that had been used in his last Dream, the one where Moriarty had set his trap. It could be, it was just as grimy and small. They should have tried to pinpoint that location even if the Dream had been invalidated thanks to Sherlock’s meddling. Maybe Sherlock would have thought to look there and found him… But maybe that was just wishful thinking again. John was too much of an optimist. Anyway, he certainly couldn’t blame Sherlock for the mess he’d gotten himself in. He’d have to get himself out of it by his own means. He’d managed it once before, he could do it again.

Sebastian pushed him into a cell in the basement that seemed much newer than the rest of the old building, and looked like it had been set up just for him. Why would there even be a cell in a warehouse in the first place?

“You shouldn’t have gone through all the trouble,” John said mockingly and he once more caught a glimmer of humour on the other man’s face.

Apparently, what small humanity remained in Moriarty’s right-hand man liked his dry sense of humour, but, as usual, he remained quiet and pushed his prisoner in the cell. John would have fell forward if he hadn’t been held back by the cuffs linking him to the taller man. He indicated John take a seat on the cot and proceeded to clasp another cuff around his ankle before unlocking the one at their wrists. Definitely more paranoid and careful than the last time, which didn’t bode well for his plans of escape. Sebastian smirked as if he’d been reading his mind and stepped out of the cell, closing and locking the barred door behind him, before leaving the way they’d come, which looked like a gaping dark hole from here.

John gave himself a minute to just breathe all the tension out of him. It could be worse, he told himself. The last time they’d met, Moriarty had been dead set on torturing him. Now that he had been demoted to the position of sex toy, he was merely a bait of some sort, which was still a bit not good, but at least he’d be staying in one piece. For now.

John inspected his new home. Three sturdy walls of stone, no window, but given that he was underground, that was no surprise. The fourth wall was just made of metal bars with a door cut in the middle. Crude, but solid. No apparent way out unless he got his hands on a key and so far he hadn’t seen any guard. It would probably be a useless endeavour to cry out for help too, seeing how thorough they were being. Plus, there was the minor problem of being tied down at the ankle. The cuff itself looked more solid than the standard handcuffs police used, or criminals for that matter, but the lock looked about the same. John smiled. Sherlock had taught him how to pick those one rainy night when he was bored, he’d just have to find something to use as a picklock, but first, he followed the chain. It was long, very long, and tied into the wall itself. He walked around the cell and found that he could reach the toilet and sink that had been installed in one corner -very thoughtful of the madman, if it hadn’t just been a means to stop him from escaping by asking to use the bathroom, which also meant that he was probably here for a long stay. The chain was just short enough to prevent him from reaching the barred door though. Figures.

There was nothing else here, save for a dirty lightbulb set on the other side of the bars and that gave off a gloomy light and a faint buzzing noise.

With nothing else to do, John immediately began making an inventory of the bits and bobs that lingered in his pockets: one pound and sixty five pence in coins and a twenty pound note he’d just taken from the cash dispenser for the groceries, a button he had lost from one of his shirts and that he’d meant to sew back on ages ago, and the small notebook and pencil he carried around when he went on cases with Sherlock, as well as using it for his shopping list. Sebastian had taken his keys and wallet from him before pushing him out of the car earlier on. So, in short, not much to go on. Nothing he could use to pick a lock in any case. No handy paper-clip, bobby pin or bra wire, as Sherlock had instructed, although why he would have that last item on his person was a mystery. John should add paper clips to the list of things to always carry around.

Just then, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he peered towards the exit because the rest of the underground space was visibly empty, even in this glum light.

“Hello?” he called, but received no answer.

He stared at the dark doorway for a while but saw nothing more and decided it could have been a rat. A very large, white rat, that scuttled around six feet above the ground. John snorted at the thought and all but dissected his cell in search of something to use as a picklock. By the time he decided one of the wire bits under the sink was just fine and flexible enough to be used, and wouldn’t be missed because it only served to push the sink’s pop-up plug from what he could make out, it was too late to try dismantling it because a guard finally appeared, looking just as ruthless as Sebastian and Moriarty. He had a gun out and pointed at John, as if he could do anything from behind bars, while his other hand held a small water bottle and a sandwich that he threw between the bars in his general direction before disappearing through the gaping hole facing his prison again.

“Thanks!” John shouted belatedly in that direction, wondering what Moriarty had told his guard to make him so tetchy.

He picked up his meal, smoothing the dent out of the water bottle, and set it on his bed, not hungry in the least. He checked no one was looking through the exit and went to work on the underside of the sink. It was harder than he thought it would be to pry the metal bit out without any tools but he finally succeeded and punched the air in triumph before returning to his bed for some much deserved comfort. He thought he caught sight of the guard peeking out from the doorway again while he drank from the bottle but the little bugger was as furtive as a rat so he couldn’t be sure. And then, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore because his brain turned to mush and his eyes kept drooping of their own accord.

“Bastard,” John muttered, still trying to fight off the drugs but losing to a deep unnatural sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

John was completely disoriented when he woke up the next morning. Or afternoon? Night? He had no idea, but judging by the scruff on his face, he’d been locked here at least twenty four hours. Whatever they’d put in his water was strong. The knock-out-an-elephant kind of strong. John almost took a reflexive sip of water from the bottle since his throat was parched dry to the point of being painful, but he stopped himself just in time and chuckled humorlessly, getting up to empty the drugged water into the sink. He washed the bottle out, but, unsure that would be sufficient, he drank from the tap itself. He wasn’t about to get knocked out again. That would show some level of idiocy even he wasn’t willing to own up to.

His stomach growled and he glanced warily at the sandwich that had fallen to the ground sometime during his slumber, after he’d rolled over it a couple of times by the look of it. The food could be drugged too, he wouldn’t take the chance. No. He had to get out of here before Sherlock worried too much, or before Moriarty manipulated him into doing something stupid.

John went through his morning routine as well as he could given the circumstances, and felt much refreshed for his trouble, even if the edge of hunger was still there, at least the haze of the drugs was gone. He could ignore the hunger for a while longer, he knew, and he had plenty of water to fill his stomach, if he drank from the tap, that is.

John searched the bed for his precious piece of metal, glad it hadn’t been nicked while he’d been knocked out. Thankfully, their paranoia only ran so deep, or they underestimated him again. Probably both.

It took a while to snap the wire in two and then bend those into the desired shape before he went to work picking his lock like Sherlock had taught him. He had never imagined he would actually have to use this skill as a matter of life or death, but was glad he’d been attentive enough that he could… Yes! With an almighty click, the cuff opened. John peered at the door, certain the whole building must have heard the sound of freedom, but no head appeared to peek through the door and after a good ten minutes, John creeped slowly towards his prison door. The lock was more complex and could only be accessed through the other side. It would be much more difficult. In fact, John wasn’t even sure he could pull it off this time, but he would try, for Sherlock, if nothing else. The great prat probably hadn’t even thought of eating or sleeping since he’d vanished. He hoped Mrs Hudson would take it upon herself to drop off some tea and scones. Sherlock could never resist those, even while working on a case.

John cursed. He was quickly getting frustrated with the sodding lock. He had been working on the ruddy thing for what felt like an hour without any progress to show for it, except for the dull ache in his wrists he got from bending them at such an unnatural angle, his cheek was getting bruised from being pressed into the bars in his effort to see what he was doing and he even managed to puncture his skin a couple of times on the wire’s pointy bits. He was thinking the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse when a string of curses that weren’t coming from him this time, had him snap his head up. His eyes locked on his furious guard who advancing on him with his nostrils flaring, his weapon drawn, and his finger already on the trigger.

“Wait,” John said, stepping back towards the far side of the cell with his hands raised.

But the guard was having none of it, his finger pressed tightly on the trigger and John fell like a ton of bricks.

  
  



	10. Madness in a Suit, Madness in a Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear friend, A_Sherlocked__Girl for her seal of approval.   
> Thanks to you all for just being awesome people!

John hurt all over, which was good news, considering he expected to be dead, and he doubted he’d feel this much pain if he was dead, so he counted himself lucky. But his guard had shot him… hadn’t he? He should be feeling a lot worse than he was if so.

John did his best to extend his senses outwards. He could feel the cold concrete floor, but no sticky puddle of congealed blood - again, good news. The faint buzzing from the overhead light told him the damn thing was still on and he wondered if they did that on purpose so he could have no idea of the time of the day. He forced his eyelids up and bingo! He was greeted by the expected gloomy light on the other side of the bars. It took John some time and effort to drag himself into a sitting position against the wall and realize the pain he was feeling was more due to his cold and cramped muscles than anything else. He sighed in relief when he ascertained he had no bullet wound, not even a graze. He didn’t think his body could deal with any more abuse after his last trip at the hospital, and he already had his fair share of scars. He realized how vain his thoughts were and snorted. What were a few scars when his life was on the line. He continued his inspection of his body and found a small puncture wound where he thought he’d been shot. Tranquilizer gun then. All right, that explained why he’d slept on the floor and it probably accounted for the massive headache playing congas with his brain too. But it didn’t account  for the few bruises he found on his stomach and face, so his guard must have come in to vent some of his anger with a few well aimed kicks, and if his jailor had come in… Yep, his picklock was missing and his ankle was back in its cuff again.

He dragged himself onto the bed. How long had he been knocked out this time? He had no way to measure the time, but the edge of hunger he had felt the last time he was conscious had turned into real pangs now, and even with the drugs he’d been given still making him woozy, he wouldn’t say no to some hot shepherd’s pie right about now. His sandwich had disappeared along with his picklock though and John hoped his guard wasn’t going to withhold food as punishment for his escape attempt. That’s what prisoners did, after all, it would be unnatural not to try escaping his prison so  it shouldn’t be held against him. John’s stomach growled. He wished he could go without food the way Sherlock did, but he knew that if his guard tossed another sandwich at him right this instant, he’d be on it like a starved mongrel on a bone, drugs be damned.

Except he couldn’t. He needed to get back to Sherlock, and sooner rather than later. Who knew what Moriarty was playing at with his Sherlock, making him jump through hoops for his own twisted entertainment.

_Psycho._

John pushed himself out of the bed, lest he fall asleep again, and walked over to the sink to splash water on his face. Better. His mind sharper. John looked under the sink and grinned. The second part of the metal mechanism he had used as a picklock was still there. His guard must have assumed he had brought the other piece on him. A correct deduction if the disappearance of his money from his pockets was any indication that his guard had gone through his belongings in search of other picklocks. Sherlock would be pleased of the bad influence he was having on his thought process. He hoped he got the chance to tell him about it soon.

John was interrupted halfway through his dismantling of the second piece of metal and pretended to have been taking a piss while his guard tossed another sandwich through the bars. John glowered at the cellophaned food, torn between hunger and weariness, the latter winning the battle when he caught the guard’s mocking smile. That one was drugged, without the shadow of a doubt, but his stomach howled in protest nonetheless when John turned his back on it to continue working on the sink as soon as he was left alone again..

When the metal piece yielded, John hid it in his sleeve and tottered back to the cot where he fell face first. Too much drugs, not enough food, bad combination. He felt weak when he needed to be strong. He cast a baleful eye at the sandwich, wishing it would sprout tiny legs and scuttle away through the bars, because he didn’t have the will to toss it out of his prison himself. If he touched it, he would eat it.

With a sigh, John righted himself and managed to open the cuff on his ankle in record time. Luck rather than skill, he thought, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He scrambled to the door and started fiddling with its lock again. Sherlock could probably have it open in under a minute, blindfolded and with his hands tied together while reciting the periodic table. Hell, Sherlock could probably charm the thing open with one of his rare smiles that made his eyes crinkle and turn the world into a better place. But as far as John was concerned, this lock was pure evil, the only thing standing between him and freedom. Well, that and his trigger-happy guard, with maybe more guards upstairs, but that seemed easy to deal with in comparison. John also had to keep an eye and ear open for his jailor so he wouldn’t be caught in the act like the last time, which wasn’t helping any.

But it yielded, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, the lock just gave up and slid open. So did the door which was holding all his weight and he fell forward, face first, but old reflexes die hard and he rolled into a ball, getting upright in an instant. He was surprised himself, he wasn’t as young and spry as he used to be. He certainly hadn’t used that little trick since his last tour in Afghanistan, but he was glad for it, because the guard was already there, looking murderous this time. Maybe he was fed up enough that he would use real bullets this time around. But no, the gun he was holding was a simple dart gun, he should have seen it when it had been pointed at him before.

 _You see but you do not observe._ How true.

“You! You don’t learn, do you?” the guard bellowed, his gun already out and pointed at him.

John put his hands up like he had the last time, as if he was surrendering, before he lunged himself right at his opponent who froze in surprise, just long enough for John to shove his arm aside. The shot went wide and hit the wall if the thunk to his left was any indication. He was still using tranquilizers. Good. John dodged a punch and used his momentum to land an uppercut that sent the other man reeling back, but not for long. He massaged his jaw, glowering at John, and shot in his direction again. John had to throw himself to the ground, which, he realized too late, was exactly what the guard wanted because he had him pinned to the ground before John could get back up and punched him hard enough to make him dizzy. John pushed and kicked to get the heavier man off, when his hand closed around the ammunition tied to his belt. Not believing his luck, John quickly snatched one of the spare darts off while he was getting the shit beat out of him and stuck it in his attacker’s thigh, who rapidly slumped forward, on top of him.

“Oomph,” went all the air rushing out of his lungs.

And here, he’d thought Sherlock was heavy. This bloke felt like a mountain had just decided to take a nap on him. With the last of his strength, John pushed the unconscious man’s left shoulder until he rolled off and landed in a heap next to him. He then took his gun and reloaded it, just in case there were other guards around, even if he had only ever seen this one. He hurried out of the basement and up the dark stairs, feeling the air get less stale as he ascended, but he couldn’t see any daylight under the door to the upper level so he assumed it was night. A good time to escape, all things considered. He went to push the door open when someone wrenched it open from the other side and he was left to stare dumbly at Sebastian. To his credit, the man rapidly hid his surprise and had John in a chokehold before he could even think to shoot the hulking bodyguard down. Not that it would have helped much since Moriarty was there too, impeccably dressed in a suit, as always.

“Oh, Johnny! Were you leaving? That’s a bit rude,” he said as if he was grounding a misbehaving child. “After I went through all the trouble of freeing my schedule just to visit you.”

John couldn’t retort where he could stuff his free time since he was too busy trying to pry Sebastian’s overly muscled arms away from his trachea with both hands in an effort to breathe. Fuck! That meant he’d dropped the weapon.

“I think he needs a little oxygen, dear,” Moriarty pointed out, and the grip released marginally.

John gulped in the air as if it was going out of style, before he became too tired and defeated to do even that. Fuck it! He’d been so close! SO! CLOSE! He could literally taste freedom from here. It was right behind that door, and smelled of rain. It had rained and he hadn’t even known it. What he wouldn’t give to go walking out in the rain and curse about the poor weather and that he’d forgotten to take an umbrella, exchange mockeries with Sherlock about Mycroft who always had an umbrella, track water up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and listen Mrs Hudson admonish them for being so careless. He wanted to go home. He wanted Sherlock.

He was back in his cell instead, his ankle tied, his second picklock confiscated and the barred door closed again. The fight had gone right out of him and he even felt like sleeping, shutting out this bleak reality and his failure, but that thought went right out of his mind when a loud gunshot echoed around the cavernous room. John looked up in shock to see the passed out guard had been shot in the head, summarily executed.

“I did warn him,” Moriarty said airily while Sebastian reholstered his gun and took out his phone.

John turned towards the madman who was pacing in front of the cell as if he was then one in a cage, only to see that he had said that for his benefit and was waiting for his reaction. Was it supposed to make him feel better? His jailor hadn’t been a nice man, and he’d chosen to work for someone who was clearly criminally insane, so he was never going to break any longevity record. On the other hand, John realized that if he hadn’t escaped, the guard wouldn’t be dead right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, in the end, so he shrugged.

Moriarty’s eyes sparkled. His stare was unnerving and reminded him of the black, flat eyes of the sharks he had seen on the Discovery Channel, and he hid a shudder crawling down his spine.

“You’re not what I expected. I’m starting to understand what Sherlock sees in you. So fierce, determined and resourceful. Just like a well trained dog.”

John ignored the obvious taunt while his heart lurched at the sound of Sherlock’s name. He wanted to know if he was alright, if he was looking for him, if he had told Moriarty to bugger off, but he was loath to ask the very man who was responsible for this whole situation.

“It is so entertaining to watch him run around at my beck and call, solving my little puzzles, playing the game. He’s so desperate. I bet I could make him do anything in exchange for you. I could… Oh, yeeeees... That could be arranged.”

That couldn’t be good. John didn’t know what Moriarty was making Sherlock do, but this… it sounded final. He shivered, unsure whether it was from the cold of the basement or those dark eyes devouring his every reaction.

“You’ll come and play too, of course,” he purred.

“As if I had a choice. Just bugger off already,” John muttered, hoping to put an end to the madman’s monologue.

Moriarty chuckled, but Sebastian’s eyes narrowed at him. Oh, right. Manners. Fortunately, the big man’s attention was redirected towards the arrival of two men who went to work cleaning up the body of his former guard along with the various body fluids that had formed a malodorous puddle around him, so at least they were clean about murdering people. John wasn’t sure he could have stomached sharing his prison with a decomposing body.

A brief flash made him squint. He glanced back at Moriarty who was busily typing away on his mobile. He typed just as fast as Sherlock did. No surprise there. He sent his text off with a flourish and locked eyes with him, grinning. John scowled.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Johnny. Your incompetent jailor messed up your pretty little face, I might as well make use of it.”

“You sent that to Sherlock,” John said, trying to reign in his anger.

He had no idea what he looked like, but he doubted it was anything good. The worse part was that he wasn’t even hurt, drugged and hungry, but not hurt. However his scuffle with the guard probably made it look like he was, and that would send Sherlock into a fit, it would make him lose his focus and in that state, even Sherlock made mistakes.

John touched his face, a split lip, some blood, a bruise starting to form on his right eye and cheekbone. It didn’t hurt if he left it well enough alone.

“Oh, yes. I hope that gets him talking. I always have to threaten him to get him to answer my texts,” he said with a pout, as if he could be hurt by Sherlock’s silent treatment, hurt that his arch-nemesis  refused to… what? Banter and giggle over their shared genius and madness. Because Sherlock was mad too, in his own civilized way, whereas Moriarty was of the lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key  sort of mad.

John decided to once more ignore Moriarty. His captor was talking at him more than with him anyway. Besides, he was now nursing a secret hope that Sherlock would be able to deduce where he was kept from that picture. It wouldn’t be a first, but Moriarty was clever too... surely he hadn’t sent Sherlock anything that could be useful.

Moriarty’s phone pinged and he stared at it for a moment. Was it Sherlock? It almost felt like he could reach him, which was a stupid thought.

“Well, that’s not good,” Moriarty said with a frown.

John could perfectly imagine the string of profanities Sherlock could have typed in the small amount of time it had taken him to answer, and he smirked. No, Sherlock was not broken.

Sebastian approached and whispered something in Moriarty’s ear, who nodded and flashed John his most insincere smile.

“See. You. Later,” he said in what John supposed was meant to be a flirty tone, slowly detaching each syllable.

John cringed, feeling the madman might just blow him a kiss, but he only winked. It was still cringe-worthy and John glowered back, tracking the men’s exit through the dark hole.

 

* * *

 

 

There was nothing to be done after Moriarty’s departure: no way to pick the locks; his new guard wouldn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him but he did throw more than enough food his way, some drugged, some not. It was a bit of a lottery and John cursed whenever he woke up groggy and with a headache. It felt like he had been in this cell forever, but it might only be four...five days?  Which only made matters worse. He might just become crazy if he was kept here any longer.

Moriarty had left only two days ago. Of that, he was almost certain.

“Hey, Billy!” John called. “You wouldn’t happen to have a newspaper lying about?”

He had taken to calling his jailor Billy, after Sherlock’s skull “friend”, and talked to him at random through the gaping black hole or whenever he came to toss a sandwich at him, because he was very bored. This was probably the most boring kidnapping in the history of kidnappings.

Billy never answered and even glared at him whenever John called him Billy to his face and dared chat with him as if he wasn’t holding a gun to his face. But it was a non-lethal gun. How did he expect to be taken seriously with a dart-gun?

As usual, John got no answer from the gaping black hole. He hadn’t really expected one, but it was nice to hear a voice from time to time, even if it was just his own.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as John saw Sherlock, he knew he was dreaming. He also knew he shouldn’t be happy about it because it meant Sherlock was about to die, but he was so relieved that his Dreams were still there, that he finally saw something other than his small gloomy cell, and that he could contemplate Sherlock’s beautiful face, that the dread did not come at first.

It did, eventually.

Sherlock had just walked into an inside swimming pool, looking tired and thinner than usual, but with a determined expression. It had to be night since the place was empty and the light minimal. Sherlock stopped next to the pool, looked up wearily at the dark gallery surrounding the pool and then turned once on himself, scanning the area, as if he was looking for someone.

_Please tell me you didn’t willingly walk into a trap, Sherlock. Please tell me you’re not as stupid as me._

His pleas went unanswered when Sherlock held up a small object.

“I played your games, I got what you wanted. Now give me John back,” he said angrily, the empty pool echoing his words.

A door creaked open and Sherlock whirled around, looking straight at him, or rather through him, he suspected so John turned around, only to see himself bundled in a bulky coat he didn’t recognize and looking the worse for wear.

“Evening,” dream-John said

And wasn’t that the most inane thing to say after having been separated from Sherlock for so long.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” dream-John continued, and John wondered for a second if he had been brain-washed in between now and the time this Dream happened, or maybe just really lost his mind.

Sherlock took a step forward and dream-John took a step back, a flash of panic crossing his face before he stilled.

“John,” he said softly, almost plaintively.

“Bet you never saw this coming,” dream-John said, his voice wavering at the end.

“Cut the crap out!” Sherlock shouted. “I know you stole his voice, Moriarty. Show yourself!”

Dream-John shoulders sagged in relief for a moment before his spine went ramrod straight again as he started opening his jacket, showing the bomb that had been strapped around his chest with enough explosives to take out the whole building. Now, how was he supposed to stop _that_? As if the situation wasn’t dire enough, a red dot appeared, hovering on the bomb, near his heart. Dream-John took another step back from Sherlock, trying to put distance between them.

“You don’t make the decisions around here, Sherlock,” dream-John parroted.

“But I do!” a cheery voice announced giddily, its owner appearing through another door, looking out of place in the swimming pool with his immaculate suit.

Both Johns looked wearily at the madman while Sherlock looked on with first a confused expression and then something akin to shock. John realized this was his first proper look at Moriarty, since describing him from his dreams could only give Sherlock a very abstract image of his arch-nemesis, but that didn’t account for his dismay.

“You’re Jim, from I.T.” Sherlock said cryptically, glaring at the man.

_Who the hell is Jim from I.T.?_

“Very good, Sherlock. I wasn’t even sure you’d seen me there for a while. I gave you my number and you never called,” he replied with his mock-pout, his bottom lip jutting out like a kid who’d been denied a treat. “Did I really make such a fleeting impression?”

“I wouldn’t have called even if you hadn’t,” Sherlock said levelly.

“Ah, yes. You already have John. Or rather, you had. You shouldn’t be so careless with your possessions.”

“John is _not_ a possession.”

“And yet, _I_  have him, and you came here to barter for him,” Moriarty pointed out.

So he _had_ come here of his own free will, knowing he’d be facing the criminally insane Moriarty who had already caused his death at least once before… in a Dream, but it still counted. What was the point? John was supposed to protect Sherlock, not the other way around.

Sherlock glanced at him worriedly. _Idiot_ , dream-John seemed to be trying to convey through a look.

“The plans,” Sherlock said, holding out that small object again… a memory stick?

“Boring. I could have got them anywhere,” Moriarty replied, snatching the memory stick and tossing it into the pool without a second thought.

“I thought that was the whole point of this little game of yours, having me run around everywhere, solving your little puzzles, showing me what you can do. You specialize in… solving problems. Yes, that’s it. A consulting criminal. Clever.”

Both Johns rolled their eyes. Really, Sherlock? Complimenting the enemy is definitely not good. But Moriarty grinned at the praise.

“Isn’t it? I don’t get my hands dirty, no one ever gets to me., no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock said smugly.

“Yes, and that’s the problem, right there. I can’t keep having you meddle in my affairs. It’s bad for business.”

“Why not just take me out, then? Why this game?”

“Because it’s fuuuuun,” Moriarty sing songed, the edge of madness returning. “Because I can. But believe me, I have tried to have you assassinated before, both by amateurs and professionals, and you always evaded death at the last minute. It was quite infuriating. It still is, actually, since I can’t quite figure it out, but it has something to do with Johnny boy here, I suspect, which is one of the reasons I held onto him. What good can he do when he’s under my control? And now I have you both at my mercy.”

“I guess you win this round,” Sherlock said dismissively before turning to dream-John. “The Dreamer is here, isn’t he? I saw you trying to pinpoint him.”

John did do that, it was true, but he’d never told Sherlock since he knew how foolish it was. He had just wanted to… experiment,. If he’d done so at the pool, it was probably out of habit. But Sherlock noticed everything. John should have known it was useless trying to hide something from him. Dream-John nodded and gestured vaguely towards where dreaming-John was, just a few feet to their left. Dreaming-John received dream-Sherlock’s full attention. It was unnerving because he was looking in the right direction, almost directly into his eyes, and yet he clearly couldn’t see him.

“Then we still have a chance,” he concluded, although John wasn’t convinced. They had never tried something of the sort before. It felt like future-John and future-Sherlock were communicating with  him, rather than mere dream images without any real consistency. It made them too real. Maybe they were, right this moment, although they wouldn’t be once John woke up and tried his best to change that future from ever happening. What if he wasn’t so much dreaming as waking in the future.

“What _are_ you two blabbering on about? Who is the Dreamer?” Moriarty demanded, approaching their position and staring at the same empty space Sherlock was. It creeped dreaming-John out. For the first time in one of his dreams, he felt exposed, vulnerable. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

Dream-John took the opportunity of Moriarty being so close to jump on his back - dammit, he’d never realized he was that short - and Sherlock materialized a gun -his gun- out of nowhere, pointing it at Moriarty’s head.

“Leave, Sherlock,” Dream-John pleaded. “Run!”

“You know I can’t. You’ll stop this from happening.”

“What if I tried already and failed? What if this is it?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You’re such a stubborn git.”

The red dot that had been pointed at John now migrated towards Sherlock’s head, right in the middle of his forehead.

“Oh, isn’t that sweet? But you’ve rather shown your hand there. I suspected Johnny boy was special,  and now, I know. Kill the spare,” he ordered and Sherlock’s head exploded in a spray of red and gore before they could do anything else.

  
  
  
  



	11. There and Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear friend A_Sherlocked__Girl for making me re-write some of my stupid ideas :)  
> It's getting really hot here, hard to concentrate and write, thus slow updates. Sorry!

John woke up with a strangled cry, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to reach a Sherlock who had become as insubstantial as the thin air his fingers curled around. The image of that curly head he loved so much exploding right in front of him, his blood spraying his face with warm droplets, the metallic tang of his blood… John’s stomach lurched, his only warning before he vomited all over himself.

He should be used to these kind of visions by now, but John had been standing too close this time,  he’d been taken by surprise, both by the abruptness and the violence… John fell back on the small uncomfortable cot when he heard the unmistakable fall of Billy’s heavy boots echoing down the passage to the basement and an idea struck him. He could almost feel a light bulb pop above his head and wondered if Sherlock always felt like that. It might not work, but it was worth a shot, and the worse that could happen would be that he would be injected with another dose of tranquilizers, which would, right now, be a blessing, because he he didn’t have the Dream play over and over in his mind when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, locked as he was, away from the world, away from Sherlock.

“Hey,” Billy grunted, then tapped the metal bars with something hard, his gun maybe, when he got no response.

John lay very still, knowing he couldn’t fake being dead half as well as Sherlock probably could, but the lack of light should help and he’d positioned himself, so he would look his worse while not giving away how very much alive he was.

“Hey, you! Wake up!” Billy repeated more loudly this time, more anxiously.

John was _almost_ certain the guard would not just turn around and ignore him. He would be too afraid to have to explain to his crazy boss why exactly the prisoner he was supposed to be guarding, while he hadn’t escaped this time around, was, on the other hand, very dead. That probably deserved a bullet to the head in Moriarty’s books too.

 _What didn’t?_ he wondered, trying to ignore the itch at the tip of his nose.

Cursing, Billy fumbled with his keys. John heard the lock turn, the door creak open and the boots thump closer and closer, stopping right next to his bed. He could almost feel the man’s eyes on him.

_Just a little more…_

Billy nudged his shoulder.

_A little more..._

“Wake up!” he ordered, his voice on the verge of panic. Poor sod.

And then Billy did the unthinkable and bent forward over John’s prone body to check for a pulse, or to see if he was breathing, John would never know, because in that instant he had the long chain that tied his ankle swiftly wrapped around Billy’s thick neck and he pulled, and pulled with all his might, getting hit a few times by the man’s flailing limbs before he stopped thrashing around like an idiot and tried to pull the chain away instead, but it was too late by then and he soon slumped forward over John’s body.

“Sorry Billy,” he said, not meaning it in the least, but he was giddy on adrenaline and success and that always made him a bit silly.

John pushed him off and checked for a pulse. Not dead. John didn’t care either way, but he might as well leave the dirty work to Moriarty, or rather, Sebastian.

John picked up the ring of keys Billy had dropped next to the bed, glad he hadn’t left them in the door’s lock or he wouldn’t have been able to reach them, and he unlocked the cuff at his ankle, smirking as he clasped it shut around Billy’s.

_Turnabout is fair play._

John pulled the scratchy blanket over the guard. He was way too bulky to be mistaken for John but it might pass a cursory inspection. He locked the door and tossed the keys in a dark corner where no one would think to look. They were too noisy to risk taking with him anyway.

John quickly made his way out of the basement, the tranquilizer gun in hand, with an ominous impression of déjà-vu. He hoped he’d get further this time, hoped he wouldn’t run into Moriarty and Sebastian again at the last minute. Maybe he would at least get to see the outside this time. He knew it would be night since he’d just had a dream, probably around three or four o’clock since that’s when they usually occurred.

At the top of the steps, he listened at the door, his finger on the trigger, but he couldn’t hear anything. He had no idea if there were more guards on the other side. He hadn’t seen any when he’d glanced the inside of the warehouse on his first escape attempt, but he had been a bit busy trying to breathe  through Sebastian’s chokehold. Besides, would Moriarty still leave the place unchecked when John had almost managed to escape once before? John pressed his ear closer to the door but couldn’t hear anything.

_Here goes nothing._

John pushed the door open, very slowly. All was dark and very quiet, but there was enough moonlight pouring through the large dirty windowpanes set high up on the walls and roof that he could make the outlines of the warehouse: crates, old metal pipes, a car - presumably Billy’s, piles of junk, an old newspaper being slowly blown across the building… it seemed safe, but caution is the mother of safety. John inched his way out, staying close to the shadows against the wall and carefully made his way for a small door at the back. It wasn’t until he was almost at the door that he froze at the sight of another guard, sitting on a folding garden chair that squeaked every time he shifted.

Holding his breath, John walked back, one step at a time, his eyes never leaving the second guard. Could there be more? But more importantly, was there another exit? John could just shoot him to sleep but there was always the chance he might miss, not that he doubted his skills, but his weapon was only a dart gun and if he was wearing any kind of armour of thick material under his black fatigues, it would be highly ineffectual. No, John couldn’t risk him raising the alarm if there were other sentinels, especially not if that door he was guarding was locked. Maybe he should have kept the keys, jingling his way through the warehouse. Huffing in annoyance, John looked around the desolate place, heading for a patch on the ground where a clear triangle of moonlight detached itself from the rest of the shadows, like a moth drawn to a flame. He almost wept with relief when he realized the light came from one of the old metal panels of the building that had been bent out of shape, then poorly hammered back into some semblance of repair. John pulled at the edge, wincing when the metal protested until it was finally just big enough for him to wriggle through. Maybe he should thank his captors for the few pounds he’d lost. However, he was slowed down by his clothes that kept getting snagged on the jagged metal bits sticking out. He even had to leave his coat behind when it stuck on a nail and started ripping all too loudly for his taste, but he made it. John Watson was standing proudly outside in the open, relishing the fresh air, the cold, and even the drizzle. A free man. But only for a second because fear that there might be guards posted outside overtook him.

John scuttled away from the warehouse, sticking to the shadows where he walked at a brisk pace, but running as fast as he could across the bare and lighted patches. He did this for quite some time, slowing his steps only when he started reaching civilization again. But even then, he was still weary of the cars passing him by, especially sleek black kidnapping cars, or the likes of Billy’s battered old Jeep.

John finally crossed paths with another normal human being, and by that, he meant someone who wasn’t likely to kidnap him, drug him or beat him up. But the man yelped at his sight, crossed the road and all but ran in the opposite direction. John was puzzled for only a second before he realized he must really look a sight: dirty, beaten up, with more scruff on his face than he’d ever had in  his entire life _and_ he was holding what appeared to be a real gun. He probably looked miserable and like he might make use of said gun any second since his finger was still on the trigger.

Yeah, no wonder he had scared that poor bloke. It was the middle of the night, too. Or were they approaching early morning by now? Probably the latter, he had been walking for quite some time and the sky had lightened somewhat. John chuckled at the improbable situations he managed to find himself in and threw the gun in the next bin, looking around him for unwanted attention or pursuers, when he noticed a CCTV camera. He walked up to it and waved at the camera, feeling a stupid grin spread across his face, but he was so relieved that he couldn’t keep it off. Mycroft did not magically appear in front of him unfortunately, and John had to admit he was a bit disappointed. Sherlock’s brother had always seemed so all knowing and all powerful that he had half expected it.

John walked on, annoyed that he was so far from anyone he could ask for help, and annoyed at himself for not having the forethought of going through Billy’s pockets for a phone. Oh, well, nothing for it. Scotland Yard was probably the closest place to go from here and Lestrade would probably give him a ride back home. Maybe the DI had even been looking for him. He could file the report saying he had found the victim in his office.

John smirked, hoping his new brand of crazy mind-wanderings would stop once he got back home. One madman in the flat was more than enough. He crossed paths with four more CCTVs and waved at each of them, just in case Mycroft was looking, or maybe one of his lackeys would finally notice the trend and report it to him. He thought it might very well be the case when the fifth camera turned his way and even followed him as he walked passed.

Ha! Looked like it had worked after all.

“Hey, you!” someone hollered and John froze, ready to bolt away, but it was only a couple of police officers in yellow jackets. Patrolling, maybe? Or were they looking for the crazy homeless guy with a gun? John congratulated himself for having binned it. “Papers, please.”

“Don’t have them,” John said, knowing they were in his wallet. “Say, can you take me to Scotland Yard. I’m a friend of Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yeah, right,” one of the police officers snickered.

“Been drinking much, mate?” the other said, his nose crinkling in distaste. “Or something stronger?”

“What?” John asked, blinking before remembering he had vomit all over his front. “Oh, no, no. That’s not it. I was kidnapped by this madman and-”

“Yeah, right. I think this one is ripe for the drunk tank. Come along, mate. Let’s not disturb the Queen’s peace.”

John shrugged and followed the two officers. He wanted to go to Scotland Yard, and to Scotland Yard he was headed with an armed escort. It was better than he’d hoped for.

 

* * *

 

 

The police officers wouldn’t hear another word about alerting DI Lestrade for him, so he just followed them meekly into Scotland Yard, hoping Mycroft would think to look for him in the drunk tank. The light in the entrance hall was blindingly bright after so long in the gloom and darkness, so much so that he squinted and covered his eyes with an arm, when he heard the most beautiful sound in the world.

“John!”

John jolted up, squinting around, searching for Sherlock whom that voice belonged to. There he was, taking long strides towards him with a stunned Lestrade in his wake, pushing people out of his way and wearing the biggest smile he had ever seen on his face.

“Sherlock,” he croaked out, feeling the prickle of tears trying to escape.

_No. I’m not going to break down now in front of the whole bloody Scotland Yard. Not after everything I went through._

Sherlock was extending his arms, looking ready to hug him despite the very public surroundings, but John took a hurried step back.

“No!” he cried out.

“What?” Sherlock said, seeming lost and a bit hurt. “John?”

John blushed.

“No. It’s just that… I stink, Sherlock. I’m disgusting and could use a couple of baths before you even think of hugging me,” he said, his voice gruffer than before from sheer lack of use, despite his one sided-monologues with Billy.

Sherlock’s face broke into a grin again and he grabbed him, smothering him into a warm hug. It was the best feeling ever. He could stay there forever.

“As if I care. John. My John. I was worried sick. I’ve been looking all over for you,” he murmured in his ear.

Sherlock then held him at arm’s length, looking him over, scowling from time to time but seeming satisfied on the whole. He chuckled.

“You do stink,” he announced and finally let him go, although he did stay close as if he might disappear again.

“I did warn you,” John teased and felt a heavy blanket fall on his shoulders.

“Hey, Greg,” he greeted the DI. “Still my official shock blanket provider, I see.”

“Yeah, but you’re not getting my coat with that stench. I’d never get it out again. And it would be nice if you could avoid needing shock blankets in the first place,” he said looking both happy and tired. “It’s good to see you, John. Sherlock was becoming unmanageable without you.”

“He threatened to have me arrested,” Sherlock muttered.

“I can imagine. Oh, could you send some people down at this warehouse?” John asked the DI, grabbing a pen and paper from the welcome desk to jot down an approximate address and directions. “They might not have realized I left yet.”

Lestrade’s eyes bugged out a little, looking between the address and John.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after the last stunt you pulled off. Just give me a sec to get this organized. Do you need medical help by the way?”

John shook his head and waved him off.  Sherlock then navigated the building until they were in Lestrade’s office, a few of the Yarders he knew gawking at them as they walked by.

“How did you know I was coming?” John asked, sitting in one of the visitor’s chair, appreciating having a chair to sit on for the first time in days.

“Mycroft texted me. The smug bastard gave me a countdown of your arrival at the Yard without any explanation. Lucky I wasn’t far.”

John nodded. That made sense. He wanted to ask Sherlock what Moriarty had made him do, when the door opened. Sherlock expression became blank and John turned to see Sally Donovan. She wasn’t really a fan of him any more than she was Sherlock, so he hoped she wasn’t here to poke fun at them because he wasn’t in the mood. But, to his astonishment, she put a large, steaming cup of tea in front of him with a couple of biscuits wrapped in plastic, then left without a word. Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow at him after she left.

“Reckon it’s poisoned?” John whispered, stifling a fit of giggles. The onset of hysteria, he thought, but Sherlock was laughing too.

“I’d wager she’s just glad she’ll have to put in less hours looking for you.”

John chuckled but he was appreciative of the gesture. A cup of tea was exactly what he needed right now. He downed half of it and was feeling quite full already when Lestrade reappeared.

“Are you feeling up to giving a statement? Or you can go back home to rest first if you’d rather?”

John shook his head adamantly.

“I’ve slept more than enough, believe me. Those guys had a thing for drugs. It was bloody annoying.”

John filled them in on his kidnapping from A to Z, needing to edit his tale only once for Lestrade’s sake about his Dream, feigning a mild food poisoning instead.  Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look, because John could literally eat anything and not get sick. He was almost certain he’d eaten one of Sherlock’s experiments once, but he hadn’t wanted to ask. Sometimes, ignorance is preferable. John gave Sherlock a pointed look, urging him to figure it out. It took only a few seconds for Sherlock’s mouth to part slightly in understanding and John gave a sharp nod, wondering much later when they had mastered nonverbal communication.

“You sure I can’t tempt you into joining the Yard?” Lestrade asked when he had finished.

“No, Lestrade. He’s mine. Find you own John,” Sherlock replied.

John could get used to his possessiveness. It was kind of endearing, but knew it was only because he had lost him for a few days... A week? He was about to ask about that when the door opened and Donovan’s head poked in.

“The SO19 teams called in. They picked up one man passed out in the basement and one at the door, just as you said, Dr Watson, but there was a third one outside that got away. No conventional firearms were found. SO19 said we could have gone in ourselves."

"They still managed to lose one," Lestrade grumbled. "He probably ran off to his master too, so we can't set a trap at the warehouse now."

John shifted on his seat at the mention of Moriarty.

"About that..." he said trying to find the right words and motioning for Donovan to step in, which she did after a moment’s hesitation, closing the door behind her. "I think it would be best if it wasn't widely known that I escaped on my own. Let Moriarty continue to underestimate me, and think the police have more resources than they really do. No offence."

"None taken," Lestrade assured him and paused thoughtfully, considering his request. John was glad he hadn’t refused outright. "I guess that can be arranged. The timing between the two events is tight enough that we can muddle things up, especially since John walked in with a couple of our officers. I didn't know you were so devious, John."

"Yeah, well. You try dating one genius while being stalked by another, and you'll start thinking on a  different set of tracks entirely too."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled in amusement, mesmerizing John, who only vaguely heard the two Yarders bicker with one another in harsh whispers. Lestrade finally ordered them to go catch up on some rest while he sorted out all this mess.

"And for God's sake, John, take a bath. In the Thames if you have to."

 

They returned home in a police car, much to Sherlock's chagrin. John had noted before that Sherlock absolutely loathed riding in one of the Met’s patrol cars, but he hadn’t gotten the story behind it yet. Maybe Lestrade would know. The DI had doubted any cab would stop with John looking like that, so they caved in and accepted his offer of a car. On their way home, John shared his doubts about the wisdom of returning to such a blatantly obvious place when Moriarty was still after them, but Sherlock had assured him that 221B was safe and locked down more tightly than the Crown Jewels.

"He's going to be pissed," John said, talking about Moriarty's reaction to his "rescue" by the Met.

"So? Let angry dogs bark. He can't reach either of us there without having a whole platoon of SAS swamping him. Or whatever other special ops Mycroft deemed necessary," he amended after a beat. "You'll be safe there."

It was hardly his own security John was worried about, but he held his tongue. They would come to this argument soon enough when they discussed his latest Dream... vision of the future. He wasn't sure anymore.

 

The first thing John did when he stepped into their flat was to peel off all of his clothes and throw them directly into a garbage bag. He might have tried to wash them if they hadn’t all been shredded to some degree after wriggling out of the warehouse. Actually, he was glad for the excuse to throw everything away that may link him to that place.

The second thing John did was to hop into the shower. He knew he’d only be stewing in his own filth if he tried taking a bath. He turned the taps full on, making the water as hot as he could tolerate, and scrubbing viciously at his skin until it was pink and as clean as he could hope it to be. He might be a clean freak for the next few days just to compensate for the lack of it during his absence.

The third thing John did was to brush his teeth, because he fully intended to kiss Sherlock to show just how much he’d missed him. Unfortunately, vomit-breath could deter even the most enthusiast of lovers so he’d had to reign himself in and wait until he made himself more human. John wiped the steam clinging to the mirror and froze at the face he saw in the mirror. It was still him, very much so despite the fading bruises colouring one side of his face and the sharper edges of his cheekbones, but it was the facial hair that surprised him: it was darker than his hair, with copper hues. It gave him quite a rugged look and he wondered if he should just keep it that way.

“Sherlock?” he called and laughed when the door opened immediately. “You were standing behind that door the whole time, weren’t you?”

“Well, you didn’t invite me in. I didn’t have much of a choice,” he muttered.

“Since when have you ever needed an invitation?” John asked waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up.

“I’m going to hold you up to that, you know?” he replied with a low, dangerous tone that made John wonder if he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

“The beard?” he asked, grappling for the first thing to come to mind. “What do you think? Should I keep it?”

Sherlock let his fingers trail in the coarse hair for a while before kissing the tip of his nose.

“Shave it. I like my doctors clean-shaven.”

John turned around and went to work on it, fascinated by how fast it grew out if you let it.

“How long was I gone by the way? Between the dark and the drugs, I couldn’t count the passing of days all that well.”

“Thirteen days and nine hours from the moment I was alerted,” Sherlock answered, his voice sounding hollow now.

John dropped his razor.

“That long?” he asked, fishing his razor back out of the sink and flicking the water off.

It exceeded his worse estimate by over three days and he couldn’t even fathom at what moment those had been misplaced.

“Wait… You were alerted? By who?” John asked, he hadn’t been able to do it himself, that much he knew. Could it be someone from the shop? Or Mycroft? John wouldn’t be surprised if he had more eyes around London than just the CCTVs. It wasn’t Moriarty after all, or Sherlock wouldn’t look so amused by his befuddlement.

“By whom,” Sherlock corrected automatically, earning himself an eye-roll when their eyes met in the mirror. “Your sister barged in here unannounced demanding to see you.”

“Harry?”

“Do you have any other sisters I’m unaware of?” he teased. “No, I didn’t think so. She came straight from her office judging by her appearance and said you had called her, which was already surprising in itself since you never call her, but she said you had sounded very strange and that you weren’t picking up your phone anymore. From there, it was the usual legwork to find where you had disappeared from, when and how. But I still couldn’t find you.”

Sherlock fell silent, his expression somber for a moment, then became animated again as he typed in a text at lightning speed and sent it off.

“I promised to keep her updated,” he explained. “Although I don’t think she much appreciated the ‘not dead” messages, or the picture Moriarty sent to prove you were, in fact, not dead.”

John breathed in sharply.

“Not good?”

“A bit not good, yeah...” John replied, shaving off the last of his beard.

“Oh. Is this one of those instances where it’s better to lie and pretend everything is fine and dandy when everyone knows it’s not?”

John couldn’t help but smile at that. He was right, logically speaking, but that’s just not how it was done. Sherlock’s phone chirped again and he read the message.

“She’s on her way,” he said.

Oh, boy. John was not looking forward to his sister’s visit and all her drama, especially because he had been looking forward to making up for lost time with Sherlock. He looked disappointed too, in fact, but not for long.

“Come here,” Sherlock purred, pulling him flush against him and wiping away a bit of shaving cream he had missed on his neck, just below his ear. Oh...sensitive spot. “We have twenty-two minutes before she gets here, and that’s if she doesn’t bother with make-up.”

  
  
  



	12. Interruptions Unlimited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so great, your comments are so motivating, that this chapter wrote itself with very little effort on my part and I thought you deserved to get it as soon as possible. So enjoy, everyone, and thanks for all the fish ;)
> 
> Special thanks to my dear friend A_Sherlocked__Girl for always pushing me onwards, and to Seranvali, whose words of wisdom I always enjoy so much.

"So... Why exactly did your sister find it so hilarious that we're together?" Sherlock asked as soon as Harry had left, but not before she had threatened John for the umpteenth time to take better care of his scrawny hide, then winked at Sherlock to take good care of her brother. John barely had time to throw a cushion at her before she fled. Good grief, she was just as annoying as ever, but at least she was off the booze. For now, hopefully long enough for her to patch things up with Clara.

John took the armchair Harry had vacated and put his feet up in Sherlock’s lap, sitting across from him. He sighed, more relaxed now that his tornado of a sister was gone, and he savoured the silence for a few minutes before answering.

"Uhm... Well, for one, we’d obviously been snogging our tonsils out like a couple of teenagers. Your shirt is still untucked by the way. But I'm guessing it’s mostly because our parents used to always cite me as an example whenever she did something that upset them."

"Like announcing she was gay."

John nodded, recalling the horrific dinner where Harry had just tossed that little revelation between the stew and apple pie, completely ignoring their parents subsequent shouts and reproaches while John tried to reason with them, that it wasn’t the end of the world, that it didn’t change anything and that it was really Harry’s choice in the end.

"Would they be upset still? About you, I mean? Because of me."

John shrugged.

"I think they're past caring now. Not that it would have changed anything."

John saw Sherlock's eyes light with comprehension and he seemed to be searching for something trite to reply, because that's what normal people did, or so someone must have told him at some point, so John changed the subject.

"What about your parents?"

"I don’t doubt they will be very surprised."

John grimaced.

"Not that you're of the male persuasion," Sherlock clarified, rubbing his feet absent-mindedly and it was all John could do not to groan out and melt into a puddle of goo. "I think they'll just be surprised I found a normal, living human being that not only tolerates me, but has been doing so long enough for us to build a relationship. I think they had more or less given up on the idea."

"The fact that you had to specify ‘normal’ and ‘living’ worries me quite a bit. Besides, I'm not exactly normal in case you've forgotten, Sherlock."

"Oh. Right. Well that explains it, then. Speaking of, do you feel like telling me about the Dream you had while you were...away? It must have been bad to make you sick.”

John knew that he couldn’t put it off any longer so he told Sherlock all of it, to the best of his abilities, but he’d only seen it once and a lot had happened since then.

“But it was very strange, Sherlock. It almost felt as if I was interacting with our doubles. Maybe you were right in thinking they are visions of the future, of the path we’re headed if a change isn’t made. Maybe they’re even more than that… rather than me just receiving images, if my consciousness was projected forward… I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s the sort of stuff you only read about in science-fiction novels. I don’t suppose you have a way to experiment on a way to find that out?”

“Not really my area,” Sherlock confided. “But I’ll think about it. I have time since you’ve already created the paradox to nullify that last Dream.”

“I’m not sure the Dream has been nullified yet, to be honest. It could still happen. We’ll only know for sure after tonight.”

Sherlock raised a septical eyebrow.

“Why? Do you intend to let yourself be kidnapped? Again? Really John, that would be a bit much.”

John huffed at his amused tone.

“No, Sherlock,” he ground out. “As much fun as it is to be locked in a cage like an animal, I doubt Moriarty will manage to kidnap me by force or trickery again. But he’s smart, I wouldn’t put it passed him to find yet another way.”

“He’s not smarter than me,” Sherlock scoffed, looking peeved that John had given compliment to his arch-nemesis.

“Maybe he is,” John bit out, the reason why Sherlock got his brains blown out in the first place replayed through his mind. John left his chair to pace, anxiety coursing through his body now, and rounded on Sherlock, pointing an accusing finger at him. “After all, you didn’t run when I told you to.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together as he followed John’s steps through the living room.

“Are you scolding me for what my maybe-future self did? Or didn’t do, as the case might be.”

“Would you have acted any differently?”

“Of course not.”

John huffed.

“I’m here… I’ve been given this ability to protect you, Sherlock. There was absolutely no reason for you to stay when you had the opportunity to save yourself. Moriarty wasn’t really going to kill me anyway - which is good to know. He seems to suspect I have something special, although he doesn’t know what.”

“No reason to stay?” Sherlock scoffed, leaping out of his armchair to stand toe to toe with John. “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought if you believe for an instant I would ever leave you behind.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s meant to protect you, Sherlock. Not the other way around,” John argued, tucking one of Sherlock’s stray curls back.

“And I’m almost positive that’s not how a relationship works... but I’ll admit I’m not an expert on the subject. Maybe I should do a bit of research about that,” Sherlock replied, taking advantage of John’s upturned face to kiss him.

John suspected it was just to shut him up so he couldn’t retort, which was a really sneaky way of winning an argument. John moaned into the kiss and decided it was worth it to let Sherlock win this round. Oh, God. How he had missed this. How he had missed Sherlock. He never, ever, wanted to be parted away from him this long again. John broke the kiss and let his forehead rest against Sherlock's clavicle, not cursing his smaller height for one because this was rather nice and he stayed like that for a while, comforted by his boyfriend's scent, warmth and presence. He felt...safe. Loved. Boyfriend… John snorted. It seemed a highly inadequate term to give to Sherlock.

"Maybe this is a good time to have that talk?" he asked.

Sherlock cocked an interrogating eyebrow. Right, relationship novice. He almost forgotten, what with the way he kissed.

"About us? Our relationship, and erm... Sex?"

“Yoohoo!” came their landlady’s voice from the entrance, and they both groaned in annoyance at being interrupted again.

"Or  maybe not," John muttered, stepping out of Sherlock's embrace just as Mrs Hudson appeared with a beaming smile.

“I thought I heard voices up here. John! You’re back! Oh, you look terribly thin. I’ll whip up some scones for you, dear. And a meat pie. Sherlock! Why didn’t you tell me John was back? I’ve been terribly worried, you know.”

Mrs Hudson bustled around them, patting John’s cheek, scowling disapprovingly at Sherlock, and not giving either of them the chance to get a word in edgewise.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock finally exclaimed, effectively stopping her in her tracks. “Do stop fretting, you’ll give yourself a coronary. I didn’t tell you before because we only just came back a couple of hours ago. I doubt you would have appreciated me waking you up at the crack of dawn when you still have your hair in curlers. Actually, John hasn’t even eaten, yet. I don’t suppose you could…”

“Just this once. For John. I’m not your housekeeper,” she chided but looked happy enough as she left.

“I don’t know if I want to lecture you about taking advantage of kind old ladies, or kiss you right now,” John told him.

“I don’t see where the dilemma is.”

“Well, given that every time we kiss, someone comes bursting in through that door,” John explained pointing at the incriminating front door. “I’m not sure it’s worth the risk. The next one could be Moriarty.”

This didn’t seem to deter Sherlock.

“Or Mycroft,” John added and Sherlock grimaced, thinking it through.

“Still worth the risk. It’s for science, John,” Sherlock purred. “We have to test this hypothesis of yours.”

The experiment proved John wrong, at first. They had time to tumble back in the sofa when someone cleared their throat, in a very pointed manner, meaning they knew they had interrupted and had seen more than they really cared too.

“Oh good grief!” Sherlock exclaimed, not bothering to get up from the sofa where he lay in a sulk while John disentangled himself and guiltily glanced at the doorway where Lestrade was hovering.

“Ah. Hey, Greg. We weren’t, uh, expecting you. Come in,” he said, looking anywhere but at the inspector.

“You look better,” the DI replied. “Smell better too. Sorry to barge in so early-”

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, sitting upright, his eyes sharp.

“It’s your brother,” Lestrade said, falling dejectedly into John’s armchair, who settled for the other. “He stole my prisoners, those two we picked up at the warehouse, while they were being transferred to Scotland Yard. How am I supposed to do my work if politics get in the way of the investigation like that? Can’t you do something, Sherlock? He’s your brother.”

“Afraid not. If it’s any consolation, Mycroft is probably having the information tortured out of them at this very minute. He might even share it with you in exchange for a fake drugs bust and agreeing to foist his boring cases on me through you. You’ll be selling your soul to the devil, of course.”

“Bloody Holmeses,” the DI muttered, glowering at the skull sitting on the chimney. “Well, at least I still have the guys in IT trying to track Moriarty’s number, not that I have that much hope-”

“What?” John asked, jolting upright. “What did you say?”

Something Lestrade had said had stirred a memory... he’d forgotten something important… something that hadn’t made any sense at the time…

“Erm… you all right, John?” Lestrade asked with a touch of concern.

“Just repeat what you said, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, leaning forward.

“Uhm… Bloody Holmeses and the guys in IT are trying to track Moriarty’s number?” Lestrade asked more than said, still looking at John as if he had crossed over to the crazy zone.

John closed his eyes, thinking, urging his mind to hurry through the myriad of images and words that cluttered his memories. Holmes, IT, Moriarty. Holmes, IT, Moriarty.

_“You’re Jim, from I.T.”_

That’s what Sherlock had said in the Dream, by the pool, when he got his first good look at his arch-nemesis.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, snapping his eyes open, searching Sherlock’s. “How could I forget that? You know him, Sherlock! Moriarty! He’s Jim from IT!”

“Jim…” Sherlock started to say, looking confused for the briefest of moments before his whole face glowed with recognition and then dimmed with confusion again. He had never seen Sherlock’s face so animated and it would have been entertaining if the circumstances had been different. “Jim from IT? Molly’s boyfriend?”

John and Lestrade paled.

“You’re sure about this, John?” the DI asked him.

“Of course I am!” John urged just as Sherlock snapped: “Of course he is!”

“Fuck!” Lestrade said and scrambled out of his chair, already barking orders through his phone as he disappeared through the door.

“Should we go too?” John asked.

“If you feel up to it,” Sherlock replied but his eyes were shining bright with the prospect of the chase and John could never resist that look. They were in a cab on their way to Barts under five minutes.

 

* * *

 

By the time they made it to the hospital, Lestrade had already managed to get Molly safe and under his personal supervision. He had evidently feared Moriarty would take her hostage the way he had John, and he probably couldn’t count on her escaping the way John had. But could Moriarty really use Molly to make Sherlock jump through hoops the way he had with John? They weren’t exactly friends... more like work acquaintances from what he’d seen of their interaction.

John looked speculatively at Sherlock, realizing the man had never told him what Moriarty had made him do, but they’d had so much to talk about since his escape, they still did, in fact… Alright, this definitely went to the top of the list, and Sherlock would not get out of it with his kiss-diverting tactics. But for now, they had a madman to capture.

John shifted his attention from Sherlock to Molly. He didn’t know the pathologist all that well. He had seen her maybe two or three times while they were off solving cases or just picking up body-parts, but she had always been so engrossed with Sherlock that she hardly even noticed him. She hadn’t even been able to recall his name the last time. He couldn’t blame her, though. Sherlock had that effect on a lot of people when he put his mind to it, and his mad detective had really wanted her to give him the lungs of the body that had been dragged out of the Thames that morning, so he’d turned the charm up and fried her brain.

Today, she seemed just as out of sorts as she usually did, and she had not even spotted Sherlock yet.

“Be nice to her,” John muttered before they went over to them.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded of Lestrade.

John rolled his eyes. How could he think ignoring her and being nice to her were synonymous? But his deep baritone was like an electrochoc to Molly whose spine went ramrod straight as she looked up for- no, not Sherlock, but him. Why?

“Is it true?” she demanded, much like Sherlock had a moment ago, and John had the uneasy feeling that he was just about to be scolded. He’d never seen this side of her and if asked, he would have said she wasn’t the sort to ever raise her voice.  “The man who kidnapped you, it’s Jim? My Jim?”

John nodded slowly, fighting the urge to take a precautionary step back. He’d never hear the end of it if he took on gorilla-sized men without a care but squirmed when faced with small angry women. He blamed the Watson women for that, his mother and sister had been absolute terrors as he grew up and he soon learned flight was preferable when faced with this kind of foe.

“But how can you be sure? You’ve never even met him! Sherlock has, once, but you were already… _you_ weren’t there. But Detective Inspector Lestrade said you were the one… I just don’t understand. It _can’t_ be Jim. He’s nice, and sweet, and funny. He wouldn’t… He’s not…” she trailed off, seeming frustrated at not finding the right words to explain how impossible his wild accusations were.

She had a point though, and Greg narrowed his eyes at him, adding the facts and who had what information: Sherlock had seen Jim but not Moriarty, John had seen Moriarty but not Jim, so unless they’d taken pictures of both men and come to realize it was the same person, which Lestrade knew they hadn’t, because Sherlock wouldn’t give one whit about Molly’s boyfriend and John didn’t have the means to photograph his abductor… John could read Lestrade’s whole thinking process on his face, while frantically trying to cook up some believable whopper on the spot.

“He heard Moriarty mention his little game of impersonating Jim from IT. _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock interjected, looking bored. “You can’t blame John for not connecting the dots sooner when he’s had such an ordeal.”

“Yes!” John almost shouted with relief, then gritted his teeth. Too quick, too eager. Damn, that was twice he did that, he should know better.

Molly relented, her shoulders sagging and glancing apologetically at him before staring at the ground again. Lestrade hadn’t brought it however, and he huffed in annoyance, but kept his peace, having bigger fish to fry right now.

“But he was so nice,” Molly sighed and then… Oh, God. Was she sobbing now?

She was, and Lestrade patted her back awkwardly, giving her words of comfort that were so generic they probably fitted any sort of victim he ever gave them too. Barely escaped an assault? It’s gonna be okay, you’re safe now. A burglar stole your grandmother’s jewelry? We’ll catch that bastard, he can’t get far. Your cat is stuck in a tree? Well, he can’t get any higher, I’ll get the green ladder. Okay, so maybe not _all_ situations, but it was having the desired effect and Molly was calmer now.

“I should’ve known, really. He was always talking about Sherlock, asking about him,  and when he came by today, he suddenly wanted to talk only about John. I’m so foolish…”

“It’s not your fault, Molly,” Sherlock said unexpectedly, three pairs of round eyes locking on him. “Moriarty is a master of deceit, or have you forgotten he fooled me too. _Me_ , Molly. How can you expect to unmask him when _I_ didn’t?”

Lestrade probably thought Sherlock was being incredibly conceited, but John knew better. He smiled and reached for his hand to give it a squeeze, because Sherlock _did_ know how to be kind to the poor woman. She looked stunned herself by his words, but also like a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

The DI’s radio crackled before announcing their man was no where to be found on the premises.

Lestrade cursed and ordered a retreat.

“Sod it! We almost had him.”

“He had a lookout. I don’t doubt he had an escape route planned and a car waiting on him. He’s not an idiot and he was taking significant risks exposing himself like that,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he thought. “Tell me, Molly, what did he ask exactly?”

“Let’s see… He asked if I had seen you yesterday, first. I said I hadn’t. Then he asked if I had heard about John being rescued... and if Sherlock had said anything about it, and I said I hadn’t again.”

She shrugged.

“Good, that’s good,” Sherlock said, sighing dramatically when they all looked puzzled. “Oh, please, do invite your tiny little brains into the conversation anytime soon, I feel like I’m talking to a bunch of bobble heads. Molly’s utter lack of knowledge about John will make Moriarty realize we don’t consider her a friend since we didn’t inform her of John’s well-being as soon as he was ‘rescued’.”

Molly shifted awkwardly while Lestrade’s mouth moved a couple of times, trying to think up something nice to comfort her, but thinking better of it every time.

“Sherlock,” John sniped with a toss of his head towards Molly.

“What?” Sherlock asked puzzled by their reaction. “Oh for Pete’s sake!” Annoyed, now. “I mean it’s a good thing because Moriarty won’t come after Molly again. She’s become inconsequential in his books and should be safe from his little games. But she’s invaluable to us, and is a good friend, obviously. Do stop being so asinine, people. I do have other matters to consider besides your bruised little egos.”

They all grinned. That little nugget of kindness buried in that mountain of snarkiness had really been worth it.

“He hasn’t had his coffee yet, has he?” Greg asked him conspiratorially, but loud enough for everyone to catch. “He can’t go without his morning coffee when he’s off the nicotine. It’s just one of those things.”

John shook his head.

“We haven’t even had a bite to eat yet, to be honest, and we’ve had more visitors than we cared for this morning, No offence, Greg. So we really didn’t have time to inform you, Molly,” John told her, because she was invaluable, even to him. Sherlock would get dangerously bored without easy-access to a morgue. He might start helping himself in cemeteries if he got desperate enough, and that couldn’t end well

.

Molly looked happier by the time she returned to her work. She would probably need a long time to come to terms with the fact she had dated a dangerous psychopathic criminal mastermind, but if she hadn’t broken down right there and then, it meant she was a lot stronger than he had given her credit for. She’d make it through, eventually.

Sherlock and John tried to sneak off, too, right after her departure, but Greg was having none of it.

“Not so fast, you two. Don’t think for an instant I’ve forgotten about that blatant lie you’ve tried to feed me.”

They tried to protest, talking over one another, but he waved them off impatiently.

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock, despite what you might think. And you, John, you’re a terrible, _terrible_ liar, and that’s twice you’ve lied to me now. At least. So spill the beans.”

John looked to Sherlock, who merely shrugged.

“It’s your call, John. I’m fairly certain he won’t believe you anyway.”

John looked at Greg. He trusted the man. He didn’t know if the DI would believe him, but he wouldn’t repeat it. He had too much integrity for that. But it was still a liability. John’s secret, their secret, really, since it concerned Sherlock just as much as John, it had been kept safe so far because no one else knew about it. No one. But what if Moriarty kidnapped and tortured Greg to get information out of him. He’d threatened to do just that to John the first time he’d kidnapped him and that was just because he was around Sherlock a lot. However, John was a nobody while Lestrade was a well-respected and well-known inspector of Scotland Yard.

“Would Moriarty go after Greg?” John asked Sherlock since he seemed to know how the madman operated better than John did despite never having met the real him face to face.

“No, I don’t think so. Not for what you think. But I’m not a hundred percent certain. Moriarty would likely think you would tell someone closer to you if you were to divulge what’s so special about you. He wouldn’t suspect Lestrade who you’ve met not so long ago and only in a professional capacity. He’ll probably be discarded just as Molly was where you’re concerned.”

John nodded.

“Alright, but not here,” John decided.

 

* * *

 

 

“I… don’t believe you,” Lestrade announced once John had finished explaining his special ability and how he’d saved Sherlock’s life several times over because of it.

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, now marginally in a better mood after a large helping of caffeine.

“I told you he wouldn’t.”

“How can _you_ believe in such drivel, Sherlock? You’re a bloody scientist, with all your rational experiments and...stuff. This… this is paranormal nonsense.”

“I believe in John Watson, because _I_ have _observed_ , Lestrade. Or do you forget I was there, too, when John tackled the suspect who was about to stab me, and then disappeared without a word? That I was there, too, when John pushed me out of the way of a speeding truck and once more ran off. Or the time he put the sniper to sleep and again, made his escape?”

Greg tapped the armrest of his chair nervously, causing John to pull the coffee pot out of his reach while pushing the plate of scones and strawberry jam towards him.

“You’ve even had him on the phone, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled. “You talked to him, and given his deficiency at lying, I doubt he’s that good at disguising his voice or speech pattern. And do tell me how John could possibly know the exact words you exchanged on the phone when only you two were privy to it?”

“You could-” Greg began but Sherlock raised one finger in warning.

“I do not indulge in these kind of childish games, Lestrade. We are not trying to pull some kind of joke on you,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at the very idea. “This is very serious to us, and we’re trusting you with it.”

Greg looked mollified. John realized just how well the inspector knew Sherlock and wondered what the story was between them. He turned to John.

“The first time we met, on the suicide-murder case, you lied to me then too. Said we’d never met when I thought you looked familiar.”

John nodded.

“I wanted to find out more about Sherlock, but I couldn’t very well go up to him and ask for his name. Later, in one of the repeats of my first dream, I noticed your police badge fall out of Sherlock’s pocket when he was…” John gulped as that image replayed vividly for a moment. “...was stabbed. So I googled your name but the faces didn’t match up. It was still a lead though, so I followed you around for a bit.”

John paused, waiting for Greg to become angry again, to tell him off, but he was merely scowling. Knowing him, he was trying to remember if he’d seen him before, and where.

“I don’t suppose you remember sharing a cab with a bloke after a night out at the pub? You were pretty pissed at the time,” John offered.

Lestrade’s eyes widened.

“You bastard!” Greg exclaimed, but it wasn’t meant harshly, he sounded almost amused. “I never really figured out how I managed to get back, much less get a cab and pay for it.”

John smiled.

“I didn’t even learn anything about Sherlock. I’d make a terrible spy.”

Sherlock snorted.

“You’d have to learn to lie convincingly, for starters.”

“Right,” Greg said, “Say I believe you… and I’m not saying I am. I mean Sherlock’s words is generally good enough for me, but this is some batshit crazy stuff, it’ll take time to sink in, I think. So, you can save this ungrateful berk’s life, I got that... but can you use what you see so we can catch this Moriarty fellow?”

John grimaced.

“I’ve only had a couple of Dreams with Moriarty, and we’re only starting to experiment with the Dreams. We’ve disrupted the process for a bit, and since Moriarty has started to target Sherlock, the Dreams have become... more erratic. But as you witnessed yourself, I got the tidbit about Moriarty impersonating Molly’s boyfriend from the last Dream. So yes, it can be useful, but we can’t exactly rely on them and hope for the best.”

The DI raked a hand through his silver hair and chuckled.

“Just when I thought I couldn’t do worse than appeal to a consulting detective and here I am, asking help from a psychic.”

John clenched his jaw, ignoring Sherlock’s stifled chuckle.

“Call me that again, Greg, and I’ll make sure Sherlock has a new tongue to practice his unmentionable experiments on.”

  
  



	13. The Confused Mind of the Dream-Walker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ATTENTION PLEASE!  
> When I started writing this fic, I had no clear idea of where I was headed. I knew it would be a Johnlock from the very beginning, but as for the rating, I had thought it would stay within the boundaries of a T rating and it has been rated as such until now.  
> So fair warning to you youngsters out there, this chapter is steamy and after careful consideration by myself and my dear friend Abe, we think it deserves the M rating.  
> However, if you think it belongs into the E rating, please inform me and I will modify the rating accordingly. I’m not here to make anyone uncomfortable.  
> This is also my first real piece of smut (ish) writing, so your comments are more than welcome. Now, enjoy :)

Sherlock was the one making sure the other ate for once. He must have felt guilty about making him skip on breakfast when he’d already been deprived proper food during his captivity, because Sherlock  had gone out himself, without any sort of prompting on his part, to fetch chinese take-out for a late lunch, and Angelo had only just left after setting dinner for two, and a candle.

“Eat some more, John. You usually eat a lot more than that.”

“I think I’ll need a bit more time before I build up my former appetite, Sherlock, but thanks. This is nice.”

And it was. Just the two of them, eating together in companionable silence with only the candle light between them - admittedly because neither felt like moving all the way to the lightswitch to flip it on. But Sherlock was mostly pushing food around in his own plate and his green beans looked suspiciously like a tiny green model of the Eiffel Tower, so John pushed his plate away, feeling full himself.

“I’m not going to make myself sick by eating too much. That would defy the point.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied, pulling him out of the kitchen to make him comfortable in his favourite armchair. “Now we can get some work done.”

John chuckled. He should have known they weren’t just going to cuddle up in front of some crap telly like normal couples did. But before he could ask what he had in mind, Sherlock dropped the heavy leather book he had offered him to write his dreams in. That was actually a good idea. He should write the last Dream down while it was still fresh in his mind, especially if he had a different one tonight. And who knows, maybe he would remember another important detail that would help them defeat Moriarty, once and for all.

He thanked Sherlock and had even starting jotting down notes from his Dream, trying to get everything sorted into some semblance of order when he realized Sherlock had been carefully avoiding talking about his time under Moriarty’s thumb. He’d waited until Lestrade had gone to ask Sherlock about it, but then he had ran off to get the food. By the time they had eaten, Sherlock had distracted him again by crawling into his lap and being all too lovable. Then he’d rushed off on some mysterious errand again, come back with Angelo late in the evening, and now the bloody wanker had  succeeded in distracting John again.

 _Almost_ succeeded.

“Sherlock!” he barked, sounding affronted but feeling he had good reason to.

His curly head popped out of the kitchen with wide innocent eyes gazing at him through the over-sized plastic protection glasses.

“I’m in the middle of an experiment,” he said.

“I’m sure it can wait,” John countered setting his book and pen aside.

“It really can’t. It’s highly unstable and if I don’t add the stabilizing agent at precisely the right moment, we may not have a kitchen anymore.”

As if to prove his point, a chime sounded and Sherlock disappeared from view again as if he’d never even been there. How did he do that? John was fairly certain they didn’t have a swivel chair, or anything else on wheels for that matter, in the kitchen. That room was dangerous enough as it was.

John sighed and took up his Dream-journal again. As much as he wanted to have this talk with Sherlock, he also enjoyed the luxury of owning a kitchen.

 

“You’re still up?” Sherlock asked.

John’s head snapped up and he cursed at the stiffness in his neck. How long had been been writing? Too long, apparently, if even Sherlock had finished playing in the kitchen, but he was satisfied with his work, and thought they might even have a couple of leads to follow through. However, John only now realized how very, very tired he was.

“I didn’t see the time pass. As far as Dreams go, that one was quite long and complex,” John explained, leaning into Sherlock’s hand when he cupped his cheek.

“Your eyes are terribly bloodshot, John. Come to bed, now. It’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it. You can finish with that tomorrow,” he added, plucking the heavy journal and the pen from his cramped hands and setting them on the table, before pulling him up.

Dear God, he was exhausted! How had he not realized that? He could blame Sherlock for being a bad influence, but he could actually understand a bit better how the man sometimes got completely engrossed by his experiments or his mind palace.

“Yes, I guess it’s past time I got some beauty sleep. Are you-”

 

* * *

 

 

John’s mind felt like it had been flipped over like a crepe. Hadn’t he just been talking to Sherlock?  Awake? In Baker Street? But this, this was definitely a Dream…

Wasn’t it?

Dammit, he wasn't sure anymore. He would be, if it had been the same Dream, the one in the swimming pool, or if he could see his doppelganger… Having two Johns in the same place was a definite give-away.

But, he might have been knocked out and then moved, which meant there was a slight possibility this was reality. Fuck! This was so confusing. The problem was that his Dreams had always been so real: his five senses were always completely fooled, until he tried to interact with the dream-people.

John spun around, searching for someone, anyone.

But it was dark. Night. Stars and a sliver of moon above, but no street lights. Where the hell was he? Where was everything? London? There should at least be the never ending rukus, blazing lights and stink of the bustling city. Unless he was in the middle of nowhere.

Dirt under one foot, grass under the other. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark… long, twisted black shapes detaching themselves from the night sky. Branches, trees, everywhere. Just...great. If this was reality, he was lost, pure and simple. If this was a Dream, how in heaven’s name was he supposed to find the next place Sherlock was due to die.

But, be it one or the other, he knew he had to find Sherlock.

He took a few steps forward on what appeared to be a path when a gunshot rang out. He reflexively fell flat to the ground. Cold, just a little humidity and very little gravel… or maybe just stones. A natural path? Not something man-made? He filed all that away for later, just in case, and listened: very little wind but it still made that eery sound as it wound through the trees and then, a sharp crack. Someone had stepped on a branch and that someone was close. The shooter or the target? Or had he been the target? Friend or foe?

John decided he was way too much in the open and crawled to the side of the path, hating his slow pace and the noise he was making. He waited there for only a minute when another body fell heavily to the ground next to him, peering down the path and at the trees on the other side.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, thinking his boyfriend had simply not seen him, but he was so completely ignored he knew that was not the case after all.

Just to check his theory, John reached forward, trying to capture one of Sherlock’s wild curls between his fingers, but they became… insubstantial. He chuckled, relieved. His Dreams, he could deal with. Being thrown unsuspected into a dangerous situation without a clue of what was going on, where he was and how he got there, was quite another matter. However, it did mean Sherlock was about to die and he would detest every second of it.

Another body threw itself to the ground next to Sherlock, almost on top of John, who gaped stupidly at Greg. That was new. What the hell had they gotten into?

“John?” Sherlock asked, and he almost answered out of habit when Greg spoke.

Of course he wasn’t talking to him.

“I don’t know. He bolted for the other side with Donovan. I feel like we’re being herded like animals,  to be honest.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“This was a set-up. I told you the body was all wrong.”

“You say that half the time!” Greg protested.

“Yes, and you know how much I hate repeating myself so you should-”

Another shot cracked through the air, whistling close by where the two men were hiding. John was almost certain it had wedged itself in the tree trunk right behind Sherlock. It had been a very close call. Lestrade was cursing like a sailor, having no doubt gotten the same impression.

“They must have known we’d get no signal to call for back up out here,” Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t just side-stepped death once more.

“Maybe John and Donovan will get away far enough to find a signal, or someone to send for back-up…” Greg said, peering into the darkness, his own gun out. At least they had that.

“Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade. If this is Moriarty’s doing again, and I have little doubt it is, then John is his main target. Although he probably wants _him_ alive. I, on the other hand… Oh!”

“What? You have an idea?” Greg asked, sounding hopeful.

“No, I’ll probably die here,” Sherlock deadpanned and the DI’s face fell.

“Don’t-”

“Yes, chances are quite high. Especially if the shooter is who I think it is. But think about it, Lestrade. Think! If I die here…”

“Oh… You mean…”

“Yes. John must be here. He’ll stop us from falling into this trap in the first place.”

Greg looked around them, his eyes flitting right over John without seeing him there despite the fact they were so close John could see the permanent crease between the Di’s dark brown eyes and the tiny freckle on his right cheek.

“Sherlock, I’m not sure about this,” he said hesitantly.

“Understandable, but I am. John, today is the 29th of March and the local police of Maple Cross  called Lestrade and I out for the body of a woman that has been set up to look like a beheading by a terrorist cell out of Syria. Keep us from going, Lestrade too, get-”

Another shot, but this one found it’s mark and Sherlock’s face contorted with pain, the muscles of his jaw and neck straining as he rode through it, trying not to cry out. John searched for the wound, Greg unintentionally helping him as he was doing the same: it had gone in through the shoulder. John grimaced, the angle was bad, much worse than the hit he had gotten himself in Afghanistan, and Sherlock was bleeding out profusely despite Greg trying to put pressure on it. John felt sick, he hated this. He hated seeing the man he loved suffer and die, over and over again, but he also knew he had to so he could live.

“No, Sherlock. Dammit! Don’t do this to me, you bastard!” Greg ordered, white-faced and kneeling over the consulting detective as if he had forgotten there was a sniper aiming at them.

“Jo- John,” Sherlock stammered. “Get… Mycroft to… Aah… to retrieve… body. Trap. Sniper.”

“He’s not here. He’s not here,” Lestrade was repeating. “This is madness, Sherlock. We have to get you out of here, or you’ll bleed out. I don’t know how-”

“Too...late,” Sherlock ground out, a tear rolling out of his left eye as he turned his head, his eyes searching the darkness.

For him? John scrambled forward, trying to catch his hand but losing substance as he did so. He choked out a sob. He could only watch as Sherlock died, the light in his brilliant eyes dimming as blood continued to flow through the DI’s hands. Greg himself looked about to break. John had seen that expression many times on the faces of his fellow soldiers when shit hit the fan.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, barely audible.

His lips moved again, but no sound accompanied it this time, and the next instant, his body just seemed to suddenly let go of the tenuous grip it had held over life, while not giving any obvious sign it had done so. The absence of the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the lack of flutter of his eyelashes, the blood flowing ever more slowly out of the gaping wound of his shoulder, the release of his muscles that had been so tense as he fought against the pain… The absence of everything signed his death.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked quietly, but he knew, he knew. The tears were testimony enough and John was only too glad when his mind was allowed to escape from the Dream and take refuge into the real world.

 

* * *

 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, trying to hold John still while he fought to break free. “John, stop it! You’re safe!”

John was panting, looking around him like a wild animal, feeling that he had to run away as fast as he could and his legs doing a fair job of it as they thrashed about. Except… he didn’t anymore. He was exactly where and with who he wanted. Out of that bloody Dream and with his Sherlock, very much alive, warm, and talking to him in comforting whispers as he held him in his arms.

“Pen,” John demanded hoarsely and Sherlock jostled him a bit before the pen was thrust in his hand, his dream journal following seconds after, open in front of him at a new page, so he wrote with a trembling hand:

 

_29 March, Maple Cross, beheading, terrorist, trap, Moriarty, sniper, send Mycroft_

 

After that, he dropped the pen and turned into Sherlock’s embrace, burying his head into the crook of his unblemished shoulder, finding it just a bit ironic that he was finding so much comfort where there had been so much pain just a moment ago.

“John?” Sherlock called softly, rubbing the nape of his neck in gentle, soothing motions. “Was it really bad?”

John nodded. They were all bad, as far as he was concerned. All his deaths were. But the more he got to know Sherlock, the more he got attached, the more he loved him, the more it hurt.

“I watched you… as you died. But I couldn’t touch you, I couldn’t comfort you. You were hurting, bleeding out, and you were talking to me as if you could see me. You called after me and-”

John could recall with crystal clear clarity Sherlock’s unnaturally pale lips moving soundlessly, confessing those three small words to someone he couldn’t even see, but believed was there, looking over him like some kind of twisted guardian angel, even as he died.

 _I love you_.

Fucking hell. That was not when he’d wanted to hear those words for the first time.

“It’s hard, Sherlock. Seeing you die… I’ll never get used to it. It’s so real. I can tell myself over and over that it isn’t, but-”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock said firmly, cupping John’s face so he could stare into his eyes and there was such unwavering certainty there, the same he displayed when he would rattle off his brilliant deductions at lightning speed that John was starting to feel foolish for being so upset.

Of course, it wouldn’t come to pass. Thanks to Sherlock, they had more than enough information to not only avoid disaster, but hopefully catch Moriarty or one of his key men. So he nodded, because his words had sounded like a promise. A promise not to die from the death he’d just witnessed, but also all the others his Dreams would bring.

“Christ, I love you Sherlock, but I wish you’d be more careful with your life. These Dreams are getting completely out of hand.”

“What?” Sherlock replied stiffly, instead of his usual, and rather posh: “I beg your pardon.” that always had him smile fondly.

John replayed his words through his mind, wondering what had gotten Sherlock in a tizzy, and blushed. Oh well, he’d said it now, and it was unlikely he could persuade Sherlock he had misheard, or that he’d be willing to delete it until the time was right.

“You heard me, Sherlock. I’m not going to take it back, because I mean it, but I didn’t intend to spring it on you like that. I know it’s a bit...erm, early in our relationship for that. But I do,” John babbled on, his chin lifted in challenge, daring him to say otherwise, to mock him for being a sentimental fool.

“You do?” Sherlock asked instead, sounding genuinely surprised, as if there wasn’t anything anyone could possibly love about him, the idiot. Then, his face, his whole stance in fact, became predatory, much like a giant prowling cat, the way it did every time he was about to pounce on him. “Say it.”

John could feel the burn of embarrassment of his cheeks battling for dominance over his defiant chin. Those weren’t words John had said very often. For such small and easy syllables to pronounce, they were incredibly difficult to offer. But this was Sherlock, the most brilliant, mad, caring and beautiful man he had ever met…

“I love you, Sherlock,” he finally said, enjoying the pure joy transforming the man’s face. “You idiot,” he added, because Sherlock’s own confession of love had been completely ruined by him dying on the spot. “And I know you do, too. Or will by the end of the month, so don’t go giving me some crap about the futility of such sentiments or how it’s only a chemical imbalance produced within the human body, or I _will_ wallop you, love be damned.”

Sherlock laughed, hugging John against him and kissing the top of his head.

“Oh, I _do_ love you, John Watson, you impossible man. How could I not?”

John’s heart soared and he couldn’t fight the magnetic pull he felt towards Sherlock if he had wanted to. How did you fight gravity, anyway? He thought there might be a number of ways, he was fairly sure there were, but his brain was engaged elsewhere, focused only on Sherlock, his full lips, so soft and warm, his hot breath mixing with his own, his wicked tongue entangling with his own, he could get drunk on Sherlock’s kisses, and his hands… Did he really only have two of them? Because it felt like they were everywhere on his own body, slipping under his clothes, tugging at the hems to get more access, gliding over the planes of his body and teasing sensitive spots he shouldn’t even know about. Good thing they were in a bed, or his legs would have given up under the assault of sensations already.

“Wait,” John mumbled, his mind stuttering at being in a place he didn’t remember going to. “Why am I in bed? In _your_ bed? I thought I was...”

John wasn’t sure, which only served to confuse him more. He’d been...writing, hadn’t he? In the living room. And Sherlock was there at some point. He frowned, frustrated at having his mind so muddled. His Dreams had never confused him before. Dream and reality had always been clear-cut in the past. He always knew where he was as he woke up because that’s where he was when he fell asleep, it helped ground him in reality.

“Must we?” Sherlock asked, looking pouty, disheveled and deliciously sinful. “Now?”

“No, I suppose not,” John admitted. “I’m just feeling… disoriented, I think. Never mind.”

Sherlock sighed.

“No, I’m sorry. I should have foreseen you wouldn’t be yourself. I got a bit...uhm...carried away just now.”

He sat up against the  pillows and pulled John against him. John wasn’t sure whether to feel irritated at being handled like a teddy bear, or just enjoy this unexpected side of Sherlock. “I was conducting an experiment in the kitchen while you were writing in your journal. Do you remember that much?”

John nodded, recalling something Sherlock had said about blowing up the kitchen if he was interrupted.

“Good. I was just going to check up on you just before four, since you usually have your Dreams around that time. I was surprised to find you still up, to be honest, but I should have known your sleep cycles would be all jumbled after being kept in captivity underground.”

He huffed, sounding exasperated with himself, which made John chuckle.

“You can’t anticipate everything, Sherlock.”

“I should. I’m a genius. Anyway, we were just about to retire for the night, when you just… collapsed. Right in the middle of your sentence. One second you were up, walking and talking, as alert as can be expected given the late hour, and the next,” Sherlock made an aggravated gesture with his hands. “Completely limp and unresponsive on the floor. You scared me half out of my wits before I realized what had happened, and I carried you here so you’d be more comfortable.”

“So my Dreams are non-optional, then. We’re lucky it happened on a quiet night at home, I suppose. Imagine if it had been in the middle of a chase in London.”

“I’ll make sure to always have you tucked in by three o’clock from now on,” Sherlock vowed solemnly.

“That shouldn’t sound as appealing as it does.”

Sherlock brightened up.

“So I can keep you in my bed?”

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s late. Or early, I guess.”

Sherlock hummed, his long fingers playing absently with the raised flesh of his shoulder wound.

“What about the following nights?”

John realized what Sherlock was really asking. He peered up at him, but Sherlock was looking straight ahead where he knew for a fact there was nothing more than a stretch of blank wall.

“You want us to share your room?” John clarified.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

“It seems more practical than going from one room to the other. Besides, mine is more comfortable.”

John stretched up, and up, until he could catch Sherlock’s lips.

“Of course I want to,” he kissed him again. “Did you really think I’d say no?” and again. “I think you underestimate,” and another. “Just how much I want you. All of you.”

By this point John was fairly straddling Sherlock, looking hungrily down at him. Sherlock’s eyes, usually so pale, were dark, pupils blown wide with desire. His pale skin flushed, and his breathing fast and irregular, until it hitched when they locked gazes.

“John,” he pleaded, his voice low and gruff, sending a jolt of desire all through John’s body.

Just hearing his name said like that, with so much _want_ … Oh God, yes. It was all the cue John needed to start unbuttoning his lover’s shirt, ripping a couple of the tiny, annoying things at the end when his patience ran out. But far from annoying the shirt’s owner, it only seemed to arouse him that much more, his hips rocking upwards and - oh! Friction. Delicious friction. John lost himself in it for a couple of minutes, as they rutted against each other through their clothes like two horny teen-agers.

John was already hard, straining against the thick material of his trousers, so he scrambled back to tear  off his clothes impatiently, wanting, _needing_ to feel skin on skin.

Sherlock made a strangled sound and John glanced at him worriedly.

“Too fast?” John asked, remembering _all_ of this was new to Sherlock. John at least had some experience, even if being with a man this way was as new to him as it was to Sherlock. He wondered if that was a good thing or not. Probably not, he decided, feeling a little out of his depth all of a sudden.

“No,” Sherlock finally answered. “More, John. I _need_ you.”

John understood that feeling well enough and he helped Sherlock out of the rest of his clothing, tugging off his trousers, pants and socks in one fell swoop, surprising even himself, but then his eyes fell on Sherlock’s body and he could only...stare. His naked body long and lithe. His skin so white he could swear it was glowing in the darkness. So beautiful, and all his. He was still staring, but  gathered it was all right, because Sherlock had, and still was, staring back. _Cataloguing data_ , his mind supplied before Sherlock caught his hand and tugged him forward, and he found himself lying flush against him, skin against skin, just as he had wanted. He groaned, already too far gone to form intelligible words. Everything was just skin and hands and lips and teeth, Sherlock giving as good as he received, until John couldn’t take it anymore, it was too much, too overwhelming, and yet he wanted more of Sherlock. So much more, like he had developed an unquenchable thirst for this man. He reached eagerly between them for Sherlock’s erection. It had been stubbornly begging for his ministrations by poking his belly repeatedly and had been quite difficult to ignore, but John thought better of it when he brushed his own, and grasped both of their cocks together instead.

“Yessss!” Sherlock hissed, jerking his hips up into his hand, sliding their hardened flesh against each other, and into his hand.

Ah, this was rather nice… if only… yes, they’d need to buy some lube..lots of it, industrial quantities of it, in fact… All this glorious friction, and Sherlock under him, looking completely wild and blissful, his long-fingered hands sliding down to his bottom and squeezing-

“Sherlock,” he gasped out.

He wanted more of this, to explore more of Sherlock’s body, taste every inch of it, and discover all those secret spots that would make him squirm, or groan his name and beg for more, but he was already at his limit so when Sherlock’s curious fingers joined his own, teasing even more sensations than he thought was possible out of him. John was hard pressed not to come right there and then. But he’d be damned if he let himself come before Sherlock. He wanted to see him when he did, look at his beautiful face-

“John-Oh-God-John,” Sherlock said in a breath before warmth seeped between his finger, and John had been right, Sherlock’s face as he came was priceless, enough so that the very sight of it made him come himself, crying out what he hoped was Sherlock’s name but probably sounded like a discordant groan lacking all too many vowels.

John let himself fall back on his stomach next to Sherlock, boneless and utterly content.

_And so completely in love._

John would have probably fallen back to sleep right then if he hadn’t been graced with a prime view of Sherlock’s face. He’d always thought post-coital glow was something of an exaggeration, but he now knew better. Sherlock looked radiant. He also looked thoughtful, too much so.

“You’re adding new data to your mind-palace, aren’t you?” John asked, grinning like an idiot, as he reached for Sherlock’s discarded shirt dangling from the bedpost and made a rather poor job of cleaning them up.

Sherlock turned half-lidded eyes towards him and smiled lazily.

“Oh, yes. I’m adding a whole new wing. I have the feeling I’ll need the extra space for all the experiments I have in mind.”

John chuckled at his enthusiasm, hoping Sherlock would remember he wasn’t exactly a young man anymore, and let him to it, knowing the rush of oxytocin and prolactin would catch up to his overactive brain sooner or later. He had good hope Sherlock would catch a few hours sleep tonight and felt just a little smug at being the cause of it.

“Love you,” John mumbled, snuggling up to Sherlock’s warm body, rapidly falling into what he knew would be a dreamless sleep.

 

 


	14. Sleepless Nights in Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse is still with me, so here's more.  
> Thanks for your comments on the last chapter, on the smutish passage in particular. Looks like I did it right :D  
> And thanks to Abe for her unwavering support. She's my Watson.

John woke up feeling incredibly well-rested, which was a nice, for a change. He also reeked of sex and was half glued to the sheets, which was not so good, but worth it. _So_ worth it. He could still picture Sherlock’s blissful face as he came in his hand, grinding against him, and he wished he had a mind palace to keep that image safe forever. The second half of the bed was empty, unsurprisingly, and must have been for quite some time since the sheets were cold. Sherlock wasn’t the type to sleep long hours and he certainly wasn’t the type to lie in. Judging by the light pouring through the drawn curtains, it was closer to noon that he wanted to admit, so he slowly puttered into the bathroom in his rather unsavoury state, hoping he’d get clean before running into his boyfriend. It had been bad enough Sherlock had seen him straight out of his cell after his stay at Moriarty’s B &B.

John was halfway through his shower when he was hit with the realization that maybe he had scared Sherlock off after last night. Maybe he’d thought it over this morning and changed his mind about their involvement.soon after they’d met: he didn’t do relationships, he didn’t do intimacy. Maybe he’d panicked after John fell asleep and ran out of the flat.

Breezing through the rest of his shower, John skittered to a halt in the kitchen.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, sounding like he always did, serious and to the point. No trace of panic, awkwardness or regret. “Good, you’re awake. We have a lot to talk about and organize.”

He thrust a mug of coffee in John’s hands, kissed him good-morning and took advantage of his surprise to give him the most salacious assgrab in the history of assgrabs. Okay, he could get used to that.

“So, erm, talk about what exactly?” John asked.

“Your Dream, John,” Sherlock answered patiently, pointing at his opened Dream-journal where he could make out, in his most illegible script.

 

_29 March, Maple Cross, beheading, terrorist, trap, Moriarty, sniper, send Mycroft_

 

Key-words he vaguely remembered putting down, but that were more than enough to revive his memory of last night. He put his coffee down.

“From the beginning, then?” he asked, watching Sherlock nod across the table from him, his fingers steepled under his chin, waiting. John began, closing his eyes from time to time so he could draw out all the details Sherlock demanded of him. He was shaken up again by the time he’d finished. It wasn’t real, it wouldn’t even happen, but it still rankled him every time. It had been real enough for him when he’d watched Sherlock bleed out as he called his name.

“One week from now. That’s not half-bad, ample time to prepare a counter,” Sherlock said, his eyes crinkling as he added: “That was quite smart of my future-self.”

“Complimenting yourself, Sherlock?” John asked, smiling despite his somber mood. “Really?”

“Someone has to do it.”

John laughed. He hoped Sherlock was joking, but it was hard to tell when the man managed to keep a straight face no matter what. Sherlock probably wouldn’t even bat an eye if Mycroft were to enter on his tippy toes in a pink tutu right then. Unfortunately John hadn’t found a way he could possibly convince Mister Three-Piece-Suit-Mycroft to try out that theory for him. He’d need a lot of blackmail material.

They had a lot to do to counter the Dream. John had even made a list and it seemed the day would not suffice to get all of it done. Thank God they had a whole week to prepare. The most difficult part of their plan would be to foil Moriarty’s trap by setting one of their own without alerting the madman that something was off.

“There’s one other matter to take care of first,” Sherlock said when they had thoroughly dissected every aspect of his Dream and John had it committed to paper.

He groaned, looking at his ever-growing list of ‘Things To Do’. His apprehension only grew when he saw how unhappy Sherlock looked himself about this new item.

“I’ve been rather remiss in not realizing how much your visions affected your psyche, more so because of their undeniable verisimilitude,” Sherlock started.

 _What the hell is he talking about?_ John thought, but was loath to interrupt Sherlock when he looked like he’d rather drop the subject entirely himself.

“I’m quite...careless when it comes to my own well-being, I’ll admit,” he continued, making John snort at the understatement. “I’ve never had reason not to be. Before.”

“O-kay?” John replied, feeling a bit lost as to where Sherlock was going with this.

“Did you know Mycroft had appointed me a security detail when I first came to live in London on my own?” he asked out of the blue.

John wasn’t surprised. The man had tried to buy him out to spy on his younger brother after all, but only after having thoroughly investigated, kidnapped and threatened him. As far as big brothers went, Sherlock’s was as overprotective and overbearing as you could possibly imagine.

“That obviously did not pan out as Mycroft had expected,” he replied tactfully, because he thought he would have noticed if Sherlock had been trailed all this time by two hulking gorillas in dark suits and sunglasses. He wasn’t near as observant as Sherlock wished he sometimes was, but he wasn’t blind either.

Sherlock snorted.

“Not really. But I have to admit that if I still had them dawdling after me like a couple of winged monkeys, they may have come in handy to stop the suspect who tried to stab me, and to get me out of the way of the truck. You wouldn’t have had to see me die that way, not those times. I can’t imagine… If _I_ had to witness _you_ dying…” he huffed and reached over to take John’s hand, linking their fingers together. “I’m not being fair to you. I’m making you unnecessarily suffer when there is an easy solution. Not a perfect one, mind you, but it should alleviate some of your burden.”

John’s eyes widened as he finally understood what Sherlock was proposing.

“You mean you’d willingly accept to be followed around by Mycroft’s lackeys?”

Sherlock nodded, the corners of his mouth turning down. He definitely didn’t like that idea, but he wanted to do it for him despite it. John was tempted by the idea, too. The thought of Sherlock having more armed and trained people looking after him, making sure he didn’t do something as stupid as stepping in front of a bus or climbing in a taxi with a serial killer, was very appealing, especially because John couldn’t always be there. He wanted to, but he knew better. He hadn’t been there when he’d been held hostage by Moriarty,  and he hadn’t been there yesterday when he’d more or less been hiding in the flat, building his strength back, while Sherlock ran out for errands and food, which reminded him of something Sherlock had mentioned:

“I thought we already had extra security here because of Moriarty.”

“Yes, but only on the flat. When we step outside, we’re on our own.”

“But you’d hate it. Being followed around 24/7.”

“I would. Call it a necessary evil. I want to do this for you, John. It’s the least I can do.”

John nodded and kissed him.

“In that case, how can I say no?”

“But you’re telling Mycroft,” Sherlock warned, pouting as he crossed his arms over his chest like a sullen, six foot tall child. “I am _not_ asking for his help. He’d never let me live it down.”

“I can do that,” John assured and hurried off to find his phone. The sooner, the better.

 

**Can you arrange for Sherlock’s former security detail to return? -JW**

 

Mycroft didn’t even bother sending a text back. In the next twenty seconds his phone rang.

“What has happened?” the elder Holmes asked in clipped tones.

“Nothing,” John assured. “And hello to you too, Mycroft. How have you been?”

“John,” Mycroft replied, and John could feel all the force of his condescension in the tone he used. “If Sherlock has not only told you about his former security detail, but also asked for their return, it must mean he believes he is in greater danger than even I imagine.”

John hummed noncommittally, because it was actually the opposite. Sherlock thought the extra security could take care of the minor dangers such as armed thugs, just to avoid John a few bad Dreams.

“Unless…” Mycroft added, letting the word hang in the static air between them, causing John to hold his breath. There was no way Mycroft could know the true reason, but the Holmes brothers were unnaturally perceptive. “Don’t tell me he’s doing this for you? That Sherlock has developed some form of… _affection_ for you?”

John glanced at Sherlock who was watching him intently, as if he knew exactly what turn the discussion had taken. John cleared his throat, adopting a cheery tone:

“Two grown men sharing a flat, Mycroft. Honestly, what did you _think_ we were doing?”

John heard Mycroft choke in surprise and had to hold the phone away, covering it with his hand as he held back a laugh, seeing Sherlock smile wickedly back at him.

“Very amusing, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Never matter. I’ll be more than happy to oblige. I only had to accede to Sherlock’s tantrum on the matter because he made his security detail cry and run back to me with their tails between their legs.”

“Really?” John asked skeptically. What? Did Mycroft hire wimps?

“Indeed. I had to relocate them to office jobs. Such a waste, they had been quite promising young men. I trust you will reign in Sherlock’s temper in the future?”

“Sure.”

“Good day, then,” Mycroft said and hung up without waiting for an answer.

“Well, that went better than expected,” John said pocketing his phone. “What did you do to make your bodyguards cry?”

“Oh, the usual,” Sherlock answered with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “Tell me, was he very scandalized?” he asked, his eyes sparkling and looking like a mischievous elf looking for more mayhem to cause.

“As much as I’ve ever heard him be, but I don’t think he actually believed me for some reason.”

“Mycroft is often confused when you offer him the truth on a silver platter,” Sherlock stated and John had the impression it was said as fact, that Sherlock had actually experimented on Mycroft’s reaction to truths given freely. Those two must’ve had a very strange and unusual childhood.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, offering John his coat and then his arm. “We have a lot to do today.”

John glanced at the top of his list. Two items crossed off, the next was Scotland Yard. They would have to convince the still skeptic Lestrade that John had some paranormal ability that could save all their arses.

 

* * *

 

 

“So you’re really doing this?” Greg asked with a touch of derision, leaning back in his swivel chair with his feet up on his desk, the very image of relaxation.

“You still don’t have to believe us, although you will when it does happen,” John answered with a shrug. “Just remember to let Mycroft handle this when you get the call.”

“Sure thing,” Greg answered, sticking the piece of paper with the specifics of the call he would receive within a week amongst a stack of other scraps of similarly scribbled papers. “I don’t suppose you could get me the lottery numbers next time though?”

John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock out of the DI’s office before he took offence for John and started deducing the DI. Greg had been much less annoying in his Dream last night, but he did have a permanent crease between his dark brown eyes and a freckle on his right cheek, John had checked, just to be thorough.

When they were outside the building, John soon noticed they were being followed, but one look at Sherlock’s annoyed expression was enough to reassure him that they were Mycroft’s people: a man and a woman, dressed blandly enough that they melded with the crowd of Londoners without attracting too much attention, but holding themselves so rigidly that John had the impression he was watching two coiled springs, ready to be released at a moment’s notice. However, as far as bodyguards went, those two were rather innocuous. Mycroft might be an annoying bastard, but he was a useful and smart annoying bastard.

.

* * *

 

John had the same Dream for the rest of the week. He wished he could evade them by not sleeping, but he now knew that was impossible. However, he was so stressed out knowing he would have that Dream that he couldn’t manage to fall asleep, forced to collapse into it when it did come anyway, and he was too strung up afterwards to find sleep, even if he was exhausted.

Sherlock tried to help, he was there, holding him and whispering comforting words in the dark.

He’d even offered sex as a tested and proved method of falling asleep, but John had categorically refused to use Sherlock in such a way, despite the very convincing, very logical arguments his boyfriend was presenting. He wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eye if he did that to Sherlock.

Sherlock finally recommended he take some sleeping pills, but John was afraid that would trap him in his Dream if he took them before. Some experiments were not worth trying. John did relent and start taking them after though, because he could just not function on no sleep the way Sherlock could.

As a result, he looked _dreadful_. There was no other word for it and everyone he met always used that exact same term when they saw the dark bags under his eyes and his grim expression. John had half a mind to punch them in the nose and comment on how ‘dreadful’ they looked today, but he thought that might just be the lack of sleep talking.

Sherlock was so worried he had finally offered to create a paradox. It wouldn’t be difficult. They were skirting dangerously close to creating one by accident anyway with all the preparations they’d made, but that would defy the whole point of capturing one of Moriarty’s men, and John had already lost too much sleep by then. He was stubborn and didn’t want to give up when they were so close to their goal. He only had one more night to go through, he could do it.

“Why didn’t we get Mycroft in on this sooner again?” John asked as they approached the Diogenes Club where Sherlock thought they might be able to corner his brother unawares.

Sherlock glanced worriedly at him. Had he already asked that question? Not today, surely? He’d remember if he had today, even if yesterday was a bit blurred around the edges.

“It would look too suspicious if I unveiled a plot to assassinate me a week in advance. I have a lot of ears and eyes out, more so in London than even Mycroft with his fancy cameras, but even I could not uncover such an elaborate plan so long in advance. Besides, it will keep Mycroft busy preparing a team to take out the sniper. Hopefully, busy enough that he does not question where I got my very reliable and precise intel from. Mycroft always wants to steal my toys, the greedy bastard.”

“I’m not a toy,” John growled, hearing in the distasteful word the echo of Moriarty’s teasing voice.

_You’re just his little fuck toy._

John shook his head to get rid of the mocking, lilting voice that had slithered its way back into his mind.

“Ah- No. Of course not, John. That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock amended.

Was he fucking _tiptoeing_ around him? Sherlock? Jesus, but he must have been in a foul mood lately. John huffed and squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting it go and pushing the door to the Diogenes Club open, holding it for Sherlock. A man in full livery, down to the immaculately white gloves, raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and strolled down a corridor, the two men following behind until he opened a door for them and left again. John found the whole thing very strange but Sherlock had warned him not to talk before Mycroft arrived, which he did a few minutes later, his face blank but a hint of curiosity slipping through the mask.

“Sherlock,” he greeted stiffly. “This is rather unexpected. I’ve never known you to willingly seek out my company. Not since you were nine, at any rate.” He turned to John and looked taken aback for a second. “John… You look…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dreadful’?” John offered with a fake smile plastered across his face, straining the muscles in his cheeks. He had been aiming for pleasant but sounded snarky even to his own ears. He leaned back in his chair and let the two brothers fight this one out on their own, he was too exhausted to intervene if it came to fisticuffs.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, staring at John.

“Nightmares,” Sherlock intervened. “PTSD. You know how it is.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow only rose higher as he directed his gaze at his younger brother. He either didn’t believe them, or was just surprised at Sherlock bothering to explain what he normally considered too pedestrian for him to even notice. But the elder Holmes was definitely becoming suspicious, so Sherlock hurriedly drowned him in all the information he had ‘gathered’ about the fake beheading case which was actually a trap to take him out. There was no need to inform him it was also a trap to get John back into Moriarty’s unsavoury hands though. That’s what Sherlock had deduced from the fact that they had been separated in the Dream, but John hoped that was one of his rare deductions he got wrong.

“You don’t usually ask for my help,” Mycroft commented, but he was already sending off a number of texts one-handed.

“I don’t usually have a sniper after me. There’s not much I can do against that.”

“And you’re sure the sniper is this Sebastian Moran character?” Mycroft asked, peering at a picture of the man on his phone, before flipping to another file cramped with words and numbers too difficult to read upside down at this distance..

“Based on John’s description of Moriarty’s right-hand man, and the files we sifted through together all week, we’re fairly certain, yes. That should more than repay you for taking care of this small matter. You’ve been looking for an opportunity to gain more information of his organization after all. Moran should be a veritable goldmine.”

Mycroft grimaced.

“If we can get him to talk. I suppose you’ve seen his service record?”

Sherlock grinned and poked an intricate bauble on the imposing desk that fell, ticked and twirled before becoming motionless again. Sherlock continued poking it, trying to get the mysterious contraption to tick again, until Mycroft pulled it out of his reach in irritation.

“That’s not really my problem, now, is it?” Sherlock said. “Just remember: wait for Lestrade’s call and don’t take action until then. Don’t even scout the place beforehand. Use one of your fancy satellites if you need to see the terrain. They might as well be of some use.”

Mycroft sniffed, looking affronted at receiving advice from his younger brother, and pointedly bid them farewell, his eyes lingering a bit too long on John for his taste as he let himself be led out by Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

John lived through the Dream one more time. For the last time. It had not changed, he was relieved to see, so Mycroft’s preparations must have been made as discreetly as he had promised. John sat on the edge of the path when he tumbled into the Dream and he watched the scene unfurl from further away than he had the first time. Far enough that he didn’t have to see the life bleed out of Sherlock and hear his last exhale as he said his name, but close enough that he could make sure that everything stayed exactly the same as it had the first time around.

It had. Moriarty had no clue they had uncovered his trap, and they, in turn, had not created an accidental paradox. It was payback time for the madman.

John heard Lestrade’s anguished cries and closed his eyes, ready to open them again in the real world.

Sherlock’s face appeared in his line of sight, looking both worried and curious, and John nodded to answer both his unspoken questions.

_Yes, I’m alright._

_Yes, the Dream was the same._

Sherlock sighed and crawled into bed next to him, slipping his cold arms around him like an overly friendly octopus.

“Pills?” he asked, letting his curly head land on John’s chest and John knew his wonderful boyfriend did it only because he knew it soothed him to play with his impossible hair after a Dream. It was something to keep his hand busy and his fingers from twitching nervously.

John shook his head, grimacing. The sleeping pills might help knock him out completely for a few hours sleep, but they also made him feel like utter shite the next day and he was frankly tired of getting drugged out of his mind of late. He hadn’t liked when it had been forced on him by Moriarty’s merry band of morons, and he certainly didn’t like having to fall back on it because he was too much of a nerve-wreck to sleep on his own.

“It’s okay,” John said. “It was the last one, right? It’ll be better after tomorrow. Just try not pissing anyone off into a killing frenzy for a while if you can.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and the silence between them was tense rather than comfortable, despite his teasing.

“Tomorrow…” Sherlock started, visibly hesitant, so John prodded him to continue. “If we… No. We _won’t_ catch Moriarty, you know. He’s not the sniper, he has no such training, and no reason to be there. He will plan something else against me in retaliation, and you-”

“Will have bad Dreams. Yeah, I get it. I’m just being optimistic here.” John let out a long suffering sigh and twirled one of Sherlock’s curls around his index finger before letting it go, repeating the process over and over again. “But maybe he’ll go for something grandiose for once and kill us on the spot instead of dragging it out like a cat playing with mice. A bomb would be nice. He could put it in the kitchen and everyone would be convinced it was one of your weird experiments that blew off in our faces.”

Sherlock chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating against his chest.

“That makes for some rather maudling pillow talk.”

“Uhm, sorry,.. But you can stop worrying, Sherlock. Even if the Dream cycle does start over immediately, I’ll handle it better. This one just gets to me more than your other deaths did, that’s all. It’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

John leaned over to kiss Sherlock’s furrowed brow and they whiled away the few hours remaining of the night talking about less consequential matters. John found himself engrossed in trying to find out how the animosity between the two brothers had started while Sherlock seemed fascinated that he’d never had such a rivalry with Harry.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a knock on the door right after lunch and the couple exchanged a puzzled look. None of the people they knew bothered to knock when they visited: Mrs Hudson yoohoo-ed, Mycroft was always preceded by the tap-tap of his umbrella, Greg generally ran up the stairs two at a time and… well, that’s all of the visitors they usually had.

“A client?” John mouthed.

That was rather bad timing given today was the 29th and they would be too distracted on waiting for news from Lestrade and Mycroft. Sherlock shrugged. It was nice seeing Sherlock couldn’t deduce everything from time to time.

“Come in,” Sherlock barked, not bothering to unwrap himself from the two rickety kitchen chairs he’d taken over while John finished wiping the dishes. “Oh, if it isn’t the winged monkeys,” he grumbled upon seeing their visitors.

The female bodyguard entered, followed closely by her male counterpart. Sherlock spared them a cursory examination, no doubt deducing everything there was to know about their private, and very private, life, and had probably decided they were too tedious to deal with because he skulked off into the living room without a word and sprawled across the sofa to stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes and called their guests into the kitchen, if only to get them out of the sulking detective’s hair.

“Tea?” he asked, already setting the kettle to boil, because who in their right mind refused a cup of tea in March?

The woman glanced at the mess in the kitchen, her hazel eyes lingering on one of Sherlock’s most colourful experiences to date that was either a new species of fungi crossbred with a rainbow, or a bunch of skittles that were impersonating the Hulk in one of his rages.

“Sure,” she said, shrugging.

She was a bodyguard so it probably wasn’t the worse danger she’d been confronted with. Her surly companion nodded too and John set out four mugs on the table.

“I suppose you know who I am,” John said, not expecting an answer. “But I know absolutely nothing about you.”

“It’s better that way,” the woman said. “But you can call me Clara, if you must.”

John smiled.

“Oswald,” the man said with a straight face when John looked at him.

“Clara...Oswald,” John repeated and barked a laugh. “Dr Who fans? Okay, I can deal with that. I suppose Mycroft asked you to keep a very close eye on Sherlock today in particular?”

They nodded, looking nervously towards the living room. John wondered if they had heard what had happened to their predecessors, or if they were just weary of Holmeses in general.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite,” John reassured them, pushing a mug of tea towards each of them. “Much,” he amended after a moment’s thought. “Tell you what: I’ll get him to work on one of his experiments in the kitchen - I’m sure I saw a few toes left over in the fridge - and then we can watch reruns of Dr Who all afternoon. It should make the wait more bearable for everyone.”

 

The two Whovians on his couch were total nerds who could quote whole passages of any given episode and had two of the most contagious laughs John had ever heard. Clara’s resembled more a snort and made her dark ponytail flick uncontrollably when she laughed, while Oswald was much too high pitched for a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of a solid block of dark granite. They even managed to lure Sherlock out of the kitchen when he heard John wheezing from laughing too much and declared they were making too much noise for him to be able to conduct his experiment satisfactorily. But instead of storming back into the kitchen, he joined them and started listing everything that was wrong with the show and why a screwdriver couldn’t be ‘sonic’. The look of horror on the two bodyguards lasted for all of two frozen second before they started arguing vehemently with Sherlock. It was the most surreal afternoon John had ever witnessed, and he’d had some pretty strange ones since meeting the man.

However, when they heard heavy steps rushing up the stairs, the two bodyguards sprung out of their seats, covering the front door with both their guns drawn and ready to shoot before either John or Sherlock could tell them it was only Lestrade.

“Erm...hi?” Greg said, holding a pack of beer in one hand and waving awkwardly with the other.

Clara and Oswald put their weapons away, and stood at attention, apparently waiting for instructions. That’s when John realized all eyes were on him.

“Join us?” he offered, pointing at the couch and introducing the two bodyguards to a rather bewildered Lestrade.

“I got the call,” Greg told John in hushed tones, leaning over towards his armchair when the three others resumed their argument about the possibility of a whole subculture living in the bowels of the Earth. “Exactly as you said. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have believed you if you told me you could fly, or shoot lasers through your eyes.”

“Until I jumped out a window or glared a hole through your thick skull?”

“Exactly,” John said, handing him a beer. “You staying for dinner? I don’t know how long it will take before Mycroft gives us word of how the plan went.”

“Sure. It beats eating at my desk,” Greg muttered, looking gloom.

Ah. Still not back with the wife, then.

“We have a spare bedroom if you fancy sleeping in a bed for a change, too.”

“Yeah, you do, don’t you?” Greg teased with a lecherous grin that made John blush to the roots of his hair.

Suddenly, Greg received a solid pillow-throw right in the nose from Sherlock, making him spill ‘perfectly good beer’ on Clara and Oswald who had unfortunately been sharing the couch with him. No need to say, it was a raucous and distracting evening that only got more interesting when Mycroft finally made an appearance.

  
  
  



	15. Visiting Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: my muse was still around for yet another eventful chapter.  
> Bad news: she just left, so the next chapter might take a bit longer.

“Well, isn’t this nice and cosy,” Mycroft said, face pinched as he glared at their security detail.

He had no doubt personally appointed the two bodyguards, and he looked disappointed to find they had been slumming it with his little brother, despite standing at attention,wide-eyed and ramrod straight, ever since they had heard the annoying tapping of his umbrella as their boss slowly made his way up the seventeen steps. They looked so uncomfortable that John took pity on them and sent them out for a little bit of fresh air. It was his fault for tempting them with their favourite show in the first place, but John doubted Sherlock could have endured the two intruders if they had just loomed silently around the flat all day, watching his every moves. Unsurprisingly, Clara and Oswald jumped to the occasion for a swift escape, saluted John, probably out of reflex and hurried away.

“Thank you… Captain,” Mycroft said primly and looked at the couch with a moue of distaste, thinking better than to sit on it.

Sherlock smirked from his beer-free armchair so John offered up his own and pointedly sat next to Lestrade, as far away from Sherlock as he could. That should teach him some manners.

“So,” Mycroft drew out, sitting ramrod straight, hands gripping his umbrella in front of him. He looked...smug, John decided. “We apprehended the sniper, as expected.”

“Moran?” John asked, wondering if the placid man was finding anything humorous about the situation this time.

Mycroft nodded and continued.

“We also stumbled upon who I believe is none other than James Moriarty, but he hasn’t said a word since the team I sent took him in, so if you would care to confirm his identity, John.”

Mycroft flipped his phone over, showing him a picture taken up close of a face he knew all too well. It only took him a few seconds to recognize those dark, sinister eyes and that unhinged smile. John  nodded once and turned his eyes away, not wanting to look at that face any more than necessary. He’d delete it if he could. And he was so relieved... So bloody relieved he felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders. It was over. With Moriarty locked away, the number of attempts on Sherlock’s life should plummet dramatically, even more so if they kept his security detail around, so maybe this was it… maybe his Dreams would disappear for a while.

“And you, Sherlock?” Mycroft continued. “I don’t suppose you would care to tell me about the mysterious source of your suspiciously accurate information?”

John knew he would have told his brother to piss off, but before he could, Greg choked on his beer, drawing everyone’s attention to him instead.

“Everything all right, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, his voice as mild as ever but his eyes sharp as he looked him over, catching his panicked glance towards John, and then Sherlock.

“Yes, sorry. Went down the wrong way,” Greg replied and excused himself for the bathroom.

John then watched warily at the silent battle of wills between the two Holmeses. They were staring at each other and seemed to be having some kind of conversation that way, Mycroft looking slightly irritated while Sherlock did an admirable job at faking boredom. Mycroft was the first to break the silence. John wondered if that counted as a victory for Sherlock, or just proved he was the more childish of the two.

“Anything you care to share? Anything at all?” Mycroft persisted, quite pointlessly, John thought, because Sherlock could be just as stubborn as he was, especially where he was concerned.

“You’ve put on a bit of weight, but I’m sure you knew that already,” Sherlock deadpanned, making Mycroft’s nostrils flare for a second.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, getting up and tapping his umbrella once as if to signal his imminent departure. “Now that this nasty business is behind us, I hope you’ll manage to reign in your insatiable need to make lethal enemies everywhere you go. For a little while, at least. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“He could have just called,” Sherlock grumbled once his footsteps had disappeared down the stairs. “He suspects something is afoot. He won’t find out, of course. He doesn’t believe in hocus pocus.”

“Are you calling me-”

“Is he gone?” Greg interrupted, his voice lowered as if he feared to summon the elder Holmes again.

John nodded.

“YOU HAVEN’T TOLD HIM?” Greg exploded. “You might have told me that.  I thought for sure he would be in the know. He always knows everything _and_ he’s your brother. I could have spilled the beans anytime.”

“I think you did a fair job of that already,” Sherlock drawled.

“There’s no reason to tell him,” John explained. “And Sherlock has this idea that if Mycroft does find out, he’ll want to whisk me off into some super-secret laboratory to find out what makes me tick and how they can use it for their own benefit.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Greg grumbled. “So who knows? Apart from us.”

Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow.

“You’re kidding.”

“Best way to keep a secret. If I wasn’t such a poor liar, we wouldn’t even have told you, but I have to admit it does have it’s perks. Tonight went as well as we could have expected with you in the know. Better than expected, in fact. He got Moriarty too. I can’t believe it’s over,” John stretched and smiled. “I can’t wait to have a night without that bloody Dream springing up on me.”

“Oh,” Greg breathed out as he finally put two and two together, understanding why John looked so _dreadful_ lately. “Yeah, that can’t be nice. But won’t there be another? I mean… even with Moriarty locked away, if you have one every time someone wants to kill Sherlock, you must be seeing Anderson going at it every night.”

Sherlock snorted.

“I think what Sherlock is trying to say is that angry kittens don’t count. You have to actually _mean_ it and actively prepare his demise to trigger a Dream. Anderson can fantasize all he wants about stabbing Sherlock in the back, I won’t see it, thank God. But there’s still a lot we don’t know about how it all works. It’s not like I got a manual when it started.”

Greg asked a few more question, his curiosity piqued now that he knew all of this wasn’t an elaborate hoax on their part, but John soon begged off. He had fought against sleep for so long that he might just drift off the next time he blinked, and he’d rather sleep in bed instead of the sticky, beer-covered couch.

 

* * *

 

 

John stumbled into the kitchen the next day, lured out of his warm bed by the smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries. He blinked in the light streaming in through the window, trying to locate the source of the much needed caffeine, when a shadow loomed over him and kissed the top of his head.

“Hello sleepy-head,” Sherlock said affectionately.

“Mnin,” John replied.

“Afternoon, actually,” Sherlock corrected. “You slept through the morning. How are you feeling?”

“Bedr...Cfee,” John answered, letting his boyfriend guide him to a chair where he supplied with enough caffeine to wake the dead. He hummed appreciatively and after a while, was able to string intelligible words together again. “This is nice. Did you go out in your bathrobe again?” John asked pointing to Sherlock’s attire. It wouldn’t be the first time he rushed out without getting properly clothed.

“No,” Sherlock said, offended, as if he had never done such an unbecoming thing. He had.  “Lestrade dropped off the coffee because he couldn’t find any this morning and said you’d probably need it. He slept in your old room, by the way. Is he going to make a habit of it? Because he snores, it puts me off my experiments.”

John considered offering the spare room to Greg more often and pointed at the pastries with a questioning look.

“Your ‘fan-club’,” Sherlock sniffed.

John frowned, reconsidering the croissant he was nibbling on. The only ‘fan’ of his his mind could conjure right now was Moriarty.

“I imagine it’s their way of thanking you for saving them from my brother’s wrath,” Sherlock clarified.

Oh, Clara and Oswald. That was all right. John bit into the croissant and smiled, glad they hadn’t gotten into any more trouble because of him. John felt strange knowing he had the whole day stretching before him with absolutely nothing to do, no Dream to analyse, no madman to escape from, no deathtrap to avoid… Only...Sherlock. They were soon back into the bedroom and spent most of the day there. And the following days, until Greg called them out on an ‘interesting’ case that consisted of  a suicide disguised as a murder for a change. Some people knew how to hold  grudge to the bitter end.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything was back to normal. Or as normal as things could be for them anyway: fingers and lungs in the fridge, awaiting to be cut, frozen, burned or God knows what else; chasing thieves and murderers around London with their two tag-alongs dogging their every step and breaking thugs’ noses from time to time if they came too close to their charges; hosting very loud Dr Who nights where John had soon decreed everyone leave their guns at the entrance because the debates over the show sometimes got a bit too out of hand and shooting at the wall was not a valid argument. And, of course, waiting on the prophetic Dream to take form. John only had  the visit of the colourful swirls at night, which gave him a very vague sense of foreboding he quickly forgot in the morning. It had been going on for a couple of weeks already and didn’t seem to want to change. If he was lucky, it would last for as long as it had the first time he had a Dream, and it would be months before he had to witness Sherlock’s death again. Maybe years, if they were lucky.

 

But two weeks of peace was all that John was allowed. However, trouble did not come in the form of a Dream. John was on his way home after having left Sherlock at the lab in St Barts where he apparently wanted to pull an all-nighter looking at some dirt samples that all looked the same to him.

He'd hardly reached the end of the street when a long black car pulled over. John was ready to bolt, but the passenger window had been pre-emptively lowered and John saw Mycroft's face giving him the look that meant he'd better get in and not test his patience. John sighed, he yearned for a nice hot cuppa after a day spent running after the younger Holmes, but complied, sliding in the seat next to the elder Holmes and tripping on that bloody umbrella of his he carried everywhere. Why? It wasn’t even raining today, for God’s sake! John almost wished he still had his cane so he could accidentally shove it up Mycroft's large nose.

"What's going on?" John asked resignedly as soon as the car had driven off, wondering what could possibly force the always so busy British Government personified to pick him up personally instead of sending one of his assistants to kidnap him.

"Moriarty," Mycroft answered, the name rolling off his tongue like something foul.

John's insides froze. He could think of only one reason Mycroft would come to see him where the madman was concerned.

"He escaped?"

Mycroft laughed mirthlessly.

"No. I assure you it would take nothing short of a small miracle for him to escape. But, despite our best efforts, Moriarty has been very...uncooperative."

"You've had him two weeks," John stated blandly.

"And yet, he hasn't uttered one word. Not even a sound, actually. I would call myself impressed, but..."

Mycroft didn't need to finish that sentence. They had tortured Moriarty for information, for two weeks, and gotten nothing for their efforts. Talk about a civilized country. Talk about a madman.

"What about Moran?"

"Same results, but he is a highly trained soldier, so no real surprise there."

John's lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. Torturing soldiers... That sounded familiar, and not in a good way. Was Mycroft trying to get him to sympathize with the enemy? Because he was doing a fair job of that. At least he had been humanely treated while in Moriarty's hands. In fact, most of his injuries had been the results of his multiple escapes, so you could call them self-inflicted to some degree.

"And this concerns me how exactly?" John asked.

"Moriarty did speak today. Two words," Mycroft paused, probably for dramatic effect, the prat, and John pretended very hard that it didn't annoy the shit out of him, especially because he had a pretty good idea of what Moriarty had said. "John. Watson."

John had gotten it right. Hooray for him. He might be a real prophet after all.

"So let me guess: he'll speak, but only to me." Mycroft nodded. "Go to hell, Mycroft."

"John," he replied in the tone he usually used on Sherlock after he’d done something spectacularly stupid. "Don't be unreasonable."

"No," John said, shaking his head. "No, Mycroft. This has nothing to do with me now. This is your game, with you spies and your secrets... and your torturers, apparently. I have no reason to go and see that twisted psychopath and let him mess with my mind just because he’s bored."

Just the thought of the Irishman's lilting voice was enough to send a shudder down his back. He didn't want to renew the experience.

"You were a soldier, John. Better yet, you were an army doctor," Mycroft said and John puzzled at the apparent non sequitur. “You’ve seen exactly what happens when the enemy gets their hands on intelligence or weapons they shouldn’t have.”

John did, in fact, remember how it felt to have his hands on the broken bodies of his fellow soldiers, trying to keep their blood and organs where they should be, while taking the twisted pieces of metal that shouldn’t be there, out, failing more often than he wished. Some of those had been awfully young. Kids, really, who called on their mother when the pain was too much, or when the light in their eyes dimmed until it was completely extinguished.

John was startled out of his flashbacks by the familiar chime of his phone. By the time he took it out, Mycroft’s chirped as well.

 

**Why did Mycroft kidnap you? Are you alright? Do you want me to kill him? -SH**

 

John smiled despite himself. Sherlock must have asked Clara to follow him home again. He did that whenever they split ways. He’d keep Oswald, who was less chatty and didn’t fidget as much as Clara, sending her after him to make sure he was safe. She must have ran back to St Barts to tell Sherlock he’d been picked up by Mycroft. Sometimes, John wondered who they were more loyal to: their employer or their charges?

Mycroft was not amused by whatever insults Sherlock must have sent him, but he wasn’t typing a reply either, merely watching him… waiting for him to make a decision.

John sighed and typed a message, knowing Mycroft would know what he typed, the way Sherlock did.

 

**He’s taking me to talk to an old acquaintance. And no, you can’t kill your brother. He’s useful sometimes. -J**

 

John looked to Mycroft, who inclined his head in thanks and ignored his own message, but their phones chimed again, one after another, and he did roll his eyes then.

 

**No. Turn around. Come back.**

 

Sherlock didn’t even sign it this time. He was probably working himself into a full-blown tantrum. But Clara and Oswald were there to look after him, so he should be okay.

**I have to do this. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon. I love you. -J**

 

He put it away and ignored the subsequent messages that were piling up in his inbox, Mycroft following his example.

“Thank you, John.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” John said, just to be clear.

“I know,” Mycroft replied and opened the door, holding it for John to descend behind him.

John took a deep breath of the brisk night air before being swallowed up by a building that probably had no official existence.

 

* * *

 

“John! What a pleasant surprise!” Moriarty said cheerfully and he almost sounded sincere.

But maybe he was. He looked terrible, small and washed out, starved and sickly, a fine sheen of sweat visible under the crude lights. John almost felt sorry for him, and he’d had to reign in his doctor’s instincts, but Moriarty had it coming, if only for trying to kill Sherlock so often. However, from the information Mycroft had asked him to get out of the criminal mastermind, Moriarty did more, much much more, on a daily basis and on a very large scale.

“I’d offer you some tea, but…” Moriarty trailed off, holding his handcuffed hands up as far as they would go, the chain that linked his wrists to the table clinking as he strained against it. John took the seat in front of him, glad for the wide stretch of table between them.

“You didn’t offer any in the cell you stuck me in, so I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Oh, Johnny boy… Are you still mad about that? If I’d known _you_ were the special one, I would have taken better care of you instead of playing with boring old Sheeeer-lock.”

John stiffened and tried very hard not looking at the red light of the camera on the wall in front of him. Or all the other cameras in the room for that matter.

“Tell me about the missile plans. Who did you sell them to?” John asked.

“Aww, come on, John. A little give and take here.”

John grimaced. He wasn’t about to spill the beans to Moriarty, of all people, and not with Mycroft bloody Holmes listening in with half the MI6.

“Why don’t you ask me _how_ I got the plans in the first place, then? I’ll even answer that question for free. As a thank you for coming here.”

John frowned. That wasn’t something Mycroft had asked him to find out, but if the madman was willing to talk, he might as well let him. That’s what Mycroft wanted after all.

“How did you get them?”

Moriarty pouted.

“Didn’t they tell you? The Iceman and the Virgin, keeping you around at their beck and call but not sharing anything with you. How sad.”

John hadn’t understood half that sentence. If Moriarty had decided to talk in codes, he had either gone round the bend already, or, as he had suspected, he was just messing with his mind.

“Who’s-”

“Oh, Johnny boy. Surely you can guess.”

John had heard that name before, the Iceman… in the car, when Moriarty had kidnapped him the first time around.

 _"Iceman playing silly buggers with me,"_ he had muttered when their speeding car had unexpectedly lurched to a halt. Could someone who controlled the CCTVs of London also turn green lights red? Probably. So the Iceman would be Mycroft, and-

“Well of course, _Virgin_ might not be such a good descriptive _now_ ,” Moriarty commented, winking at John. “You do like messing up all my plans, don’t you, John?”

“I’m not at their beck and call,” John growled instead, refusing to even mention his sex life. Creepy lunatic bastard.

“No? And yet, here you are.”

“If you’re not going to tell me anything, I might as well leave,” John snapped, getting half out of his seat before Moriarty’s next words forced him back down out of sheer shock.

“Sherlock gave me those plans.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Sherlock wouldn’t do that knowing what it could do, all the people, civilians and military alike, it could kill.

“He did it for _you_.”

Oh. Sherlock would do that. He would know John would hate him for it, but he would do it anyway in exchange for John’s life. John pushed the anger away, it wouldn’t be useful right now and he’d bet it was exactly what Moriarty wanted. It did explain why Sherlock had been avoiding telling him what he had been forced to do while he’d been held hostage though. One mystery solved.

“And the intel on our forces abroad?”

“Sherlock,” Moriarty answered smugly. “He’s very good at ferreting out classified and encrypted information. A shame he never considered a criminal career.”

Oh God, this was a right mess. It explained why Mycroft was ready to do just about anything to fix all this mess though. Sherlock had done it for John, and Mycroft was doing it for Sherlock, because wasn’t what his little brother had done treason? The least John could do was fix all of this, he was the cause of it, all things considered.

“I need a minute,” John announced, standing out of his chair so abruptly, his head spinned.

“Take your time, Johnny boy. I’m not going anywhere,” Moriarty said, his chains clinking as he waved at him.

John hurried out the door and leaned against the wall in the grey, empty anteroom, breathing heavily. There was a one-way mirror here from which he could see Moriarty lounging back in his chair, whistling a merry tune. He seemed completely unconcerned at being held here and John wondered if he wasn’t just biding his time. That thought terrified him.

“John?” came Mycroft’s worried voice.

“Is it true?”

“I had hoped Sherlock might have told you by now, but given your reluctance to come…”

“You could have told me.”

“No. Sherlock would not have forgiven me for that.”

“So you let Moriarty do the dirty deed for you?” John raked a hand through his hair. “God, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid-”

“He would have just found another way,” Mycroft said in a voice that was surprisingly soft.

“You’re covering for Sherlock,” John said and received the smallest of nods, as if he was afraid someone might see his confession. “There’s only you behind those cameras, isn’t there?”

Another small nod. John hummed as his mind spinned with all this new information. Surprisingly, he and Mycroft were on the same team, the one meant to save Sherlock from being thrown into the darkest, dankest cells of the country if his treason was ever made known, one not even Mycroft could dig him out of. They needed to get those plans back, that information obliterated and tear down anyone who held any proof of it had ever been out there.

“Alright, we can do this,” John decided and pushed off the wall, surprising Mycroft for once. “Turn off all the cameras. I’ll not have anything I say be taped. You can watch from here,” he said pointing at the one way mirror that had a speaker on the side.

Mycroft looked him long and hard in the eye before he nodded, disappeared for all of two minutes and returned, giving him the go ahead as he placed himself in front of the mirror, glaring at the Irish man who was still enjoying his little break from torture and interrogation.

“John, you’re back! I thought I might have scared you off there,” he said gesturing at the now dark cameras. “Does that mean we can chit chat now? Because I’m just _dying_ to know more about you.”

He batted his eyelashes in a manner very reminiscent a teenage girl trying to be play coy. So. Disturbing.

“Answer one of my questions and I’ll answer one of yours. Fair?” John asked.

Moriarty grinned and immediately told him all about the missile plans, who he had sold them to, when, who they would be passed to and who would eventually use them and when. John was… kind of impressed. The best part was that they still had time to stop the plans from being used altogether and nobody would be the wiser that they had ever been in enemy hands. John could just picture Mycroft behind the mirror at his back, typing furiously on his phone, pointing all his people down that path, like a pack of hounds after a fox.

Moriarty leaned over as far as he could, making John flinch on reflex.

“Now, Johnny boy. Tell me how you did it,” he demanded, his eyes gleaming with malice and curiosity, excitement and...lust? John’s nose crinkled. It really looked like Moriarty would gobble him up if he could.

“That’s a rather open-ended question. Care to be more precise?”

Moriarty fell back on his chair and licked his lips.

“Nobody knew about Maple Cross. And I do mean nobody. Just me and Sebastian, and I trust him with my life, as you probably know. I thought for a while the Iceman had finally managed to get some competent mole into my ranks, and I’ve been weeding out the ranks, but I kept being thwarted, sometimes before I could even make my moves. So I had to put up that little travesty.”

“It was...a test? But you were going to kill Sherlock. And that poor woman you beheaded.”

“Either way, it was a win-win situation for me.”

“I don’t see it,” John said, drawing out the words, still trying to figure it out. “You’re here,” he added, gesturing at the chains restraining his movements. “You were hurt. How is that a win?”

Moriarty smiled the way Sherlock did when John was stating the obvious or couldn’t grasp his deductive leaps. He really wished he hadn’t found something they had in common.

“Either the Maple Cross plan worked: I killed Sherlock and picked you up on my way out, or the plan failed: it confirms my suspicions about you, and we get to have a heart to heart talk.... right... here. See? Win-win.”

“You’re completely crazy,” John breathed out, because the madman had actually planned the possibility of them ending up here, like this, and he’d still gone ahead with it. It was not a reassuring thought, because how far after that had he planned? It took all of his effort not to send a worried glance at the mirror.

“So how do you do it? How do you _know_?” Moriarty demanded.

John took a deep breath. He had to answer, there was still many questions he needed to ask. The  advantage his ability gave him would be lost somewhat, but it would still be useful enough to protect Sherlock and that’s all that counted right now. He was protecting Sherlock this way too. That’s why he was giving up his secret.

“I Dream,” John answered and watched the glimmer of interest grow in Moriarty’s dark eyes. “If you, or anyone else, tries to kill Sherlock, I will see it, and stop it.”

Moriarty stared at him. He looked about to talk a few times, his lips parting, but would always clam up and continue staring silently at him. Again, he reminded John of Sherlock when he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle.

But John had answered, so after another minute of blissful silence he asked about where the intel on  the British armed forces had been sent, and got just as thorough an answer as the last, but it was too late to retrieve in this case, and the army had been notified early so they could move their troops, but at least Mycroft would be able to clean up the trail of witnesses and incriminating proof. It was going to be a messy affair and John did not envy him the task.

Then, it was Moriarty’s turn.

“Why you? Or Sherlock for that matter? Are there others? Is it like a club? A club of...guardian angels?” Moriarty let out a shrill laugh, tittering on the edge of madness. “Do you have wings, Johnny boy? Can I see them? Can I touch them?”

John frowned.

“Don't be ridiculous. And what question do you want answered. Only one, remember."

"Why Sherlock?" he asked putting a lot of thought into it. Did that mean he actually believed him? He had always been suspicious of him, sure, but he just accepted such an outlandish explanation? Just like that? John made a mental note to ask Sherlock about that since he seemed to understand how the madman’s brain worked.

John’s nose twitched. Moriarty would not like that answer.

“I don’t know.”

Contrary to what John had expect, Moriarty did not explode with anger, but seemed to be waiting for him to explain himself.

“I wasn’t even sure Sherlock existed when I started Dreaming of him. I thought I was going mad, actually. I don’t know why I was...assigned to him. I just was.”

“What if-” Moriarty started and John lifted a hand to stop him. “Your turn,” he sing-songed.

So John asked him about a woman named Irene Adler and her phone, about the information she had  that he wanted so badly for himself he sent Sherlock after her.

“Did Sherlock like her?” he asked instead. “I thought those two might get along. Get into a little mischief. She’s almost as smart as him, you know. They could have played their own game, but then, you left me.”

Moriarty pouted while John glared.

“So what? You didn’t actually want anything from her? You just wanted to ‘hook them up’?”

“Jealous, Johnny boy?”

John didn’t know if he was lying or not about Irene Adler. He had never met the woman, but maybe Moriarty had really been trying to drive a wedge between them. Not that it would work, but that might have been his reason for sending Sherlock after her. Mycroft would know. However, his answers had seemed good up to now, so John continued their little game of twenty questions and waited for Moriarty to speak up. And he did, the pleasant demeanour he had displayed until then melting as his face and voice became sharper, more menacing, more like the Moriarty he had met before.

“And what happens to _you_ if Sherlock dies?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	16. Ready or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these are slow in coming!
> 
> Thanks to my bestie Abe for pointing out a major error in my first draft <3

John left the bleak room with the lone figure in chains and the dark, unseeing cameras as soon as he could, meaning as soon as he got all of Mycroft’s questions answered. He was breathing hard and his heart was beating too fast, like he was pumped up on adrenaline from just a simple, more or less civil, conversation. Just as he had feared, Moriarty had completely messed up his mind, trying to plant seeds of doubt here and there, about Sherlock, about Mycroft, and even about himself.

_“And what happens to you if Sherlock dies?”_

Was that a threat? Or was he genuinely curious? John didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to have an answer. Ever. He’d happily die without knowing the answer to that particular question. He hadn’t liked Moriarty’s answer either.

_“Maybe you’d die, too? I wouldn’t want that, of course, but it’s possible. Maybe you’d be reassigned? What do you think, Johnny boy?”_

John had thought he should just shut up already. He wasn’t there to chit chat with the criminally insane.

John banged his head back against the closed door, trying to clear his mind. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in there, face to face with his former kidnapper who had developed an unhealthy obsession with him, like a Stockholm syndrome in reverse. He was just glad to be out of reach of the man’s prying black eyes, so glad, in fact, that he didn’t even care if Mycroft was there to see him have a teeny, tiny nervous meltdown for just a few little seconds. Surely he was allowed that much? John wasn’t equipped with the Holmeses’ massive intellect to deal with someone as twisted as Moriarty, and right now, he felt like he needed to scrub his brain clean with detergent.

Mycroft did eventually clear his throat though. He wasn’t the sort to wait around for other people to sort their tiny little brains out after all, but his words did surprise him:

“You did well, John,” he said, sounding as aloof as usual so it was hard to say if he was being sincere or not.

John snorted despite himself, because if he was sincere and The Iceman really was trying to cheer someone up, then that definitely went into the ‘impossible’ category. John looked him over: he was gripping his umbrella a bit more tightly than needed, his knuckles white under the strain, and the furrow between his brows might just be a little deeper than usual, so maybe he was a little shaken up. John nodded, accepting Mycroft’s word but not breaking eye contact with the man lest he miss some flicker of emotion that would indicate what he thought about what he’d just heard. According to Sherlock, he would have him locked up under the tender care of a bunch of mad scientist, but John thought it was a bit of a stretch, even for someone as powerful as Mycroft. At the moment, he seemed stuck between blind acceptance of an unlikely truth and ignoring it outright, his hesitation so palpable it was kind of funny, so out of place on the man who knew everything. It did help John, though: his amusement flushing out his confusion and distress.

“Is it true? Or were you just feeding the fantasies of a sick mind?” Mycroft finally asked, very slowly and deliberately, when it was apparent John wouldn’t be the one to bring up the elephant in the room.

No doubt Mycroft knew by now that John wasn’t a very good liar, but exceptionally good at _omitting_ the truth. John could just evade his question, he supposed, but it would be pointless. Mycroft would only dig deeper into his past actions, and have him under constant surveillance, he might even “visit” more often, which would irk Sherlock to no end.

“I’m sure you have more than enough data to answer that question yourself, Mycroft. Sherlock did say that you were suspicious of me, but that you would never find out because you wouldn’t be able to grasp the… erm… supernatural aspect of it.”

“I’m sure he didn’t say it in quite as many words,” the other man replied, smiling thinly at the mention of his brother, but he wasn’t scoffing outright at John so it appeared he did believe him, as improbable as that was.

Maybe he’d had enough data to come to this conclusion after all. Or maybe it was just a better explanation that what he’d come up with himself, despite the unnatural aspect of it. In any case, he was taking John’s ability and his link to Sherlock quite well, considering.

“Can you just promise not to tell anyone, Mycroft? And don’t whisk me off into a super-secret lab somewhere, or Sherlock will burn down half of England to find me.”

“He would believe I would do that, wouldn’t he?” Mycroft sighed. “But he is right about one thing: I don’t deal in…” he drifted off, seemingly looking for a suitable word that would not insult him, not that John really cared at this point. He knew he was weird.

“Hocus Pocus?” he offered.

“The occult,” Mycroft corrected. “This ability of yours... it’s bigger than me, or anyone else, and I wouldn’t dream of interfering with something so powerful. To be honest, the implications of it… disturb me somewhat, not that anyone would believe you if you ever repeated it. But… if you were assigned to keep Sherlock alive, then it’s my belief it’s because he is needed for something, and given the path he has chosen, and the enemy he has been set against, I think it was a question of keeping the balance. Order and Chaos.”

John blinked. How had Mycroft come to such a complex conclusion so fast? John himself had never seen things from this angle. He hadn’t thought all that much on it, to be honest. It had just happened and he had gone along with it. The fact that it had seemed the right thing to do at first, that he liked Sherlock from the get go, and had fallen in love with him soon after, had only made things easier. But if Order had an ace up its sleeve, wouldn’t Chaos have one too? A counter to John? Was it Moriarty himself? Sebastian Moran maybe? John hadn’t noticed anything special about him, but then, you wouldn’t guess John had something special just by looking at him either. It was all too abstract, he really needed to talk this out with Sherlock.

“How many times?” Mycroft asked and John didn’t need to ask what he meant by that.

“Including Maple Cross? Six times.”

Mycroft blanched. He didn’t blame him. Six times over he could have lost his little brother, and John suspected Sherlock was really his number one priority, whatever either of them said on the matter.

“I feel like I should thank you, for watching over him,” Mycroft said as they started walking back out of the building, John counting the number of guards they came across, thinking he would find some relief in that. He didn’t.

“I feel like it’s my duty. Besides, I rather like the berk.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched.

“I’d better take you straight back to Baker Street. Sherlock has been impossible during your absence. He’s texted me all night and has threatened to blow up the Houses of Parliament if I didn't return you this instant.”

“Ah. We can’t have that,” John replied, trying not to smile. He checked his own phone: twenty two unread texts and ten missed calls. Sherlock never called. He felt his fleeting smile drop into a full blown grimace. Sherlock would be furious when he got home. He sent a text back so he would stop worrying needlessly and shut his phone off again.

“He even explained in considerable detail how he would go about it. There’s a major security breach I need take care of tonight. I think Sherlock hoped I’d give you up to take care of it sooner.”

“He has no idea, has he?” John asked. “That you’re doing all this for him?”

“It’s for the best,” Mycroft answered without explaining any further. "Sherlock never liked my ‘meddling’, as he puts it."

"You're not meddling. Well... You are, technically, but only to save his skinny are. I bet he thinks he was so clever about it all that he never worried once about it blowing up in his face."

Mycroft hummed in agreement, looking thoughtful, before he spoke again.

“If you did happen to see something of importance to the country in one of your Dreams, something that didn’t concern Sherlock…”

John thought about this.

“Like a newspaper with headlines about terrorists, bombings, a plane crash...those kind of news?”

Mycroft nodded, waiting expectantly. It was a possibility, a very real one, but what would be the implications of passing on something that big to an outsider? Would it just create a paradox and annul Sherlock’s death? It might, and it might not, but he didn’t see any danger in trying it out at least once, as an experiment. Sherlock would probably agree. Not to mention the number of lives that could be saved. That alone was enough for John to give his answer.

“Yes, I’d pass on the information to you, as long as you put it to good use.”

“Good, good,” Mycroft said and drifted off into his thoughts again.

They’d finally arrived at Baker Street, ready to part ways, when John couldn’t contain his anxiety any longer. It might be paranoia, but he had to ask.

“You’re positive Moriarty can’t escape? He said he’d planned on the possibility of being captured so he might-”

“John, rest assured the best security has been used to contain him. Indefinitely.”

John deflated a bit, but the relief he’d sought still did not come. Moriarty was as clever as Sherlock, and nothing ever seemed impossible to Sherlock. And now that the madman knew his little secret, John had even more reason to want him locked up and the key thrown away. But he wouldn’t put it past the criminal genius to not only escape, but also find a loophole to his Dreams and manage to kill Sherlock without him Dreaming of it. Mycroft sighed imperceptibly and John looked up to see the door to 221 Baker Street had been wrenched open and his furious boyfriend was standing there, his tall figure cut against the warm yellow glow from the hallway.

“Right. You’d better go, Mycroft. Sherlock is going to want to vent his frustration and it better be on me. I think you have something planned for the rest of the night?”

Mycroft nodded, holding his gaze as if he was trying to read him and all his secrets, his eyes wrought with curiosity and just the lightest touch of cunning. Like a child watching a pretty butterfly and wondering how to catch it without spoiling its colourful wings. Something John could imagine was the Holmes default setting since he’d seen Sherlock with that very same expression whenever something new and challenging caught his attention.

John climbed out, but remained on the sidewalk while the black car sped away. Sherlock’s nostrils were flaring. It might still be time to fetch a cab and go to Harry’s instead, or just run the hell away and share Lestrade’s office, but before he could decide, Sherlock strode out and engulfed him in his arms.

“You idiot,” he was muttering against his temple. “You utter and complete idiot. Do you know how worried I was? Don’t you ever do that again. I’ll get back at Mycroft for-”

“No,” John finally replied, gently pushing Sherlock away from him and towards their home. “You won’t. Come on, I need a cup of tea and then, we need to _talk_.”

John failry growled that last word with the sudden return of his anger at Sherlock doing something so stupid as to give Moriarty sensible, super-secret information that put thousands of lives at stake, then ignoring the possible consequences for himself if it was found out, and not even telling him about it...

 

* * *

 

“That was incredibly foolish,” John said for the umpteenth time.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock sniped back.

They had reached a stalemate, each believing they had done what was best while the other had taken unnecessary risks.

“And now, Moriarty knows,” Sherlock added. “ _And_ Mycroft.”

John still wasn’t sure which he found more annoying.

“But at least you won’t be locked away for high treason,” John replied. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. What was done was done, there’s no taking it back now, but you can’t hide that kind of stuff from me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grumbled and stalked off to the window, glaring at the world outside as if it was somehow responsible for this situation and deliberately trying to make his life miserable. He rounded on John  again with a determined expression.

“You can’t ever leave my side again, John. Not with those vultures after you.”

John sighed.

“Be reasonable, Sherlock. We can’t be always together, that’s just not realistic and you know it.”

Sherlock’s expression clearly spelled out “Watch me.” It was true they had been near inseparable since they’d officially met, when Sherlock had stalked him all the way to his old bedsit, but even they would drive one another up the wall if they didn’t have a little breathing room: John for when Sherlock did his most foul experiments for hours on end, and Sherlock for when John did mundane things he had absolutely no interest in like grocery shopping and washing the dishes.

“Besides, Moriarty is locked up and Mycroft let me go, so neither is a threat,” John added reasonably.

But Sherlock did his best to follow through on his threat anyway, and was never more than a foot away from John for the next couple of days. John had to throw his out of the bathroom when he needed to use the loo, but that idiot would just wait outside the door. John felt like he had one of those big, overly friendly and invasive dogs instead of a boyfriend. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and took advantage of the fact that Sherlock was wearing only a sheet to slam the door to 221B for some fresh air and some much needed alone time, ignoring Sherlock’s pleas to wait for him.

Honestly, nothing was going to happen to him. Moriarty couldn’t reach him and Mycroft didn’t even want to. John would just go for a walk around Regent’s Park before returning back home, safe and sound, just to prove to Sherlock he was being ridiculous. And no, John wouldn’t look over his shoulder because he felt like as if he was being watched. That was just his paranoia acting up. And no, he wouldn’t turn around because he thought he heard an echo to his footsteps. Damn Sherlock, he’d finally managed to make him crazy. John stopped, straining his ears and couldn’t resist it anymore, he glanced behind him and found Oswald’s dark, apologetic face gazing back at him. He should have known Sherlock wouldn’t leave it at that.

“You might as well walk with me, Oz,” John told him. “I’m just going for a stroll around the park and you’re going to look very suspicious trailing behind me like a lost, puppy otherwise.”

Oswald nodded and towered next to him, as close mouthed as he usually was when he was focused on his bodyguard duties, which suited John just fine today.

 

* * *

 

 

“See, I’m back,” John said to the sullen Sherlock who was now dressed, sitting dejectedly in his armchair. “All in one piece, too.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, merely pulled on the strings of his violin which emitted a pitiful twang. John winced and went over to him, carefully plucked the instrument out of his hands to set it aside and  kneeled between his legs so he could look up into his face.

“We can’t go on like this Sherlock, locked up in our flat with you keeping me close at hand. It’s not healthy, it’s not living. Nothing is going to happen to me, or you. I’d see it.”

“You can’t know that, John. Not where you’re concerned. Something is going to happen, whether you like it or not. You said so yourself: Moriarty knew he might get caught, so of course he’s planned ahead. He’s not an idiot. And you just go gallivanting outside alone like a harmless sitting duck with a bloody target painted on your back.”

“I’m not harmless,” John pointed out, having escaped the psychopath twice already.

“You will be if he gets his hands on you again. He’ll do anything to get you now. Not me, you. And _he_ will keep you close by, you can count on it. He’d probably keep you handcuffed to him.”

John blinked. Had Sherlock thought of doing that himself, or was he just that good at reading Moriarty’s twisted mind? And here he thought Sherlock had been overprotective before.

“I’d never see you again, John. I can’t… Don’t leave me again…”

John had never seen Sherlock like this before. So unsure, and afraid. It was like a fissure was starting to appear in his usually imperturbable facade, and it was all his fault. He pried Sherlock’s hands away from the armchair, holding them in his own, his thumbs rubbing soothing motions around his knuckles.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said softly. “We’ll be fine, I know we will. Even if he wasn’t locked up, he wouldn’t only have my Dreams to bypass to get to me. He’d also have to get around Clara and Oz, and all the rest of Mycroft’s security, and let’s not forget _your_ brilliant mind. He’s clearly outsmarted and outnumbered.”

John did get a small smile for his trouble, but Sherlock still looked weary, as if he knew impending doom was coming and he could do nothing to stop it. If it had been a simple question of maths, John knew his reasoning was sound enough, but unfortunately, it wasn’t.

 

Less than a week later, Sherlock received a text while they were eating breakfast in the kitchen amidst Sherlock’s latest experiments. It was hazardous business at best and more than once, John almost ate something… something, he didn’t really want to know what, having mistaken it for his strawberry jam. Nothing unusual there, but then Sherlock snarled at his phone, and, more worrisome, called back immediately, his words clipped and seething with barely contained anger.

“What do you mean ‘escaped’? You _promised_ , Mycroft-”

John didn’t hear anything after that. The roar of blood pounding at his temples blocking out anything else and his vision swam, darkened… he didn’t know to listen to the rest of the conversation, he knew, knew without a doubt that he was talking about Moriarty... and then a sharp sting on his left cheek snapped him out of it.

“Sorry, Doc,” Clara said with a grim smile. “Looked like you needed it.”

John nodded, he hadn’t even heard the two bodyguards come in, which was rather pathetic. John was stronger than that. He didn’t ‘swoon’ like a distressed lady, God dammit! His eyes searched for Sherlock, he was always stronger when he could focus on Sherlock rather than himself. His boyfriend  was pacing in the living-room now, still talking to Mycroft judging by his deep scowl and harsh words. Moriarty had escaped, a nightmare come true. Somehow, he felt a part of him had always known this would happened, fueled by Sherlock’s own silent certainty, but he had prefered to ignore it, to hold on to the hope that the madman was out of the picture for good and that he could keep on living his life, happy in the cosy but never boring cocoon he had built around him and Sherlock.

John got up from the kitchen table too, his appetite lost for good now, and joined Sherlock in the living room, but had to retreat to the window so he wouldn’t get in the way of Sherlock’s frantic pacing. It was a beautiful day out, which didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t there be threatening dark clouds and ominous lightning? Then, something caught his eye. Right there in the windows across from their flat, words had been spray painted in bright red, the edges dripping like so much unrealistic blood.

“Err...Sherlock!” he called and heard everyone rush around him to peer out the window. It was cramped, especially with Oz who took up half the place by himself.

“Ready or not?” Sherlock read, sounding puzzled.

“You know? Hide and seek?” John said. “Please don’t tell me you never played hide and seek as a kid?” That was just sad.

“With whom?” Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft?”

Ah. He did have a point there. Mycroft would take all the fun out of the game by deducing Sherlock’s  hiding place within seconds. John explained the rules of te game and finished with:

“The seeker yells ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ when he’s done counting.”

“Moriarty needn’t have bothered with the message then,” Sherlock muttered. “We already knew he would come after you. He’s just taunting you. Maybe he wants to scare you off, so you leave Baker Street?”

“Could be The Fugees song, too,” Oz, who had been humming, commented.

Sherlock looked to John for yet another explanation, but for once, the reference escaped him too. However, Clara obviously knew what her partner was talking about because she gasped softly and fumbled with her phone until a familiar melody started playing, and then the lyrics:

 

_Ready or not, here I come, you can’t hide,_

_Gonna find you, and take it slowly,_

_Ready or not, here I come, you can’t hide,_

_Gonna find you and make you want me,_

_Now that I escape, sleepwalker awake,_

_Those who could relate know the world ain’t cake,_

_Jail bars ain’t golden gates…_

They listened to the very end of the song in silence, John feeling sicker with every word. The song might have an entirely different meaning, but you pictured those words coming out of Moriarty’s mouth and it was beyond creepy.

“Well, that sounded very much like him,” John muttered, before adding a sarcastic “Thanks Oz.”

John stomped off to their bedroom to get his gun: he’d clean it, make sure everything was in good working order and load it, all the while thinking of putting one through Moriarty’s sinister face. They should have gotten rid of him when they had the chance. John wouldn’t make that mistake twice and he’d be damned before he let the madman kidnap him again or hurt Sherlock.

The silence was thick and stifling in the small living room. Sherlock had finally stopped prowling around the place like a caged animal but he was now being very clingy. Not that John minded, on the contrary, it was rather nice, but it felt like Sherlock was saying good-bye, as if it was inevitable that Moriarty would take him away and that Sherlock had to soak up as much of John as he could, while he could.

In fact, Sherlock only backed off when Mycroft arrived, preceded by the tap-tap of his umbrella he still carried despite the cloudless sky. John remembered just in time to curb Sherlock’s temper, or he might have just bitten off Mycroft’s face. Instead, he just shouted insults at his brother for several minutes while Mycroft waited him out and their bodyguards quietly fled the premises.

“Better?” the unflappable man asked Sherlock, then turned to John. “I’m terribly sorry, John. The mistake was human, as usual. It seems Moriarty managed to blackmail several guards into freeing him and Moran.”

“Blackmail?” John asked. “Not bribe?”

“Oh, no. My men are chosen carefully, they’re incorruptible, but they do have families or people they care for at the very least. Moriarty found them and very efficiently threatened the guards with their lives.”

John sighed but understood.

“You need to built an army of droïds,” he said.

“I’m working on that,” Mycroft replied placidly and John had no idea whether he was kidding or not, but it did alleviate some of the tension.

Mycroft then walked over to the window and read the message left for them, pursing his lips. Whoever had been on guard duty on the street last night was going to get an earful.

“Maybe we should have you moved to a more secure location. The two of you, of course.”

“Sherlock reckons that’s exactly what he wants.”

“That’s one possibility, or he knows you’ll want to do the opposite just to spite him.”

“Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff?” Sherlock muttered, apparently to himself, so they ignored him.

“I suppose you didn’t…” Mycroft drifted off, making a vague gesture of the hand.

John glanced towards the front door, but Clara and Oz must have fled downstairs for as long as the two Holmeses were in the same room.

“No, no Dream. It could be a good sign, or it could just mean that Moriarty is doing his best to get around it. He might succeed too. If I’m really his target now, all he needs to do not to give us a warning is to not hurt Sherlock. It can’t be all that difficult.”

“I could just shoot myself when he comes for you,” Sherlock said.

“Absolutely not!” John and Mycroft barked simultaneously.

“That’s the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, Sherlock,” John continued. “We’d have no guarantee that we could stop Moriarty, or stop you from shooting yourself, or even create a paradox strong enough to stop the chain of events leading to it. Maybe I won’t even Dream if it’s you killing yourself, maybe it only works if someone else is responsible for your death. There’s too much we don’t know, Sherlock,  so don’t you dare do anything that stupid, or I’ll just kill you myself.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“We’ll stay here for now,” Sherlock told his brother. “Knowing Moriarty, he won’t act anytime soon anyway. He’ll want to draw it out and watch us squirm while we wait for his next move.”

  
  
  



	17. London Hostage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys. No, really, I mean it.
> 
> Thank you to my dearest Abe for approving this chapter, even if she really hates the new character coming out to play.

Sherlock was restless once he had managed to get rid of his brother. Those two should have seen a couple therapist years ago, but as it was, it seemed their relationship was unsalvageable. John ignored that in favour of trying to calm his boyfriend who was fidgeting like mad and tearing his hair out while he muttered half formed sentences.

“You don’t understand, John!” Sherlock bit out. “Everyone is playing us like the witless fools we are, dangling us like puppets on strings. Moriarty knew he could get in and out of jail with the information he so craved, and Mycroft let him have it _and_ let him escape. I don’t know what my dear brother’s  plan is, but I don’t trust him. Mycroft’s using you as bait… He’s been using you, John, and that’s inacceptable! But why? Why?” Sherlock’s gaze got lost in the cracks of the ceiling for a few seconds before he snapped out of it and exclaimed: “Oh! Of course! That’s it. He probably wants to sound out how far reaching Moriarty’s web is. I’ve wondered about that too… Mycroft will already be pursuing the leads he obtained from their escape from his so-called secure facility and now he probably wants to flush out a few of his henchmen. Some who will be more… receptive to his interrogative techniques.”

Sherlock let himself fall backwards in his armchair as if he had just gotten the news that doomsday was upon them.

“Oh my God… Mycroft is not protecting us… We’re _working_ for him.”

John didn’t want to believe that Mycroft would go to such lengths to take down Moriarty, not if it meant he put his own brother in danger, but he didn’t know the man all that much and what might have appeared to be genuine concern and worry could just as well have been an act. Sherlock was a bloody good actor when he wanted too, so Mycroft probably could be too. Damnit, he couldn’t trust anyone. Well, except for Sherlock, obviously. He trusted Sherlock with his life, just as Sherlock had trusted him with his.

 

They didn’t have to wait long for Moriarty to make his move. The very next day, a harassed-looking delivery boy presented John with a bouquet of ten, long-stemmed, pure white roses. Apparently, Mycroft had pushed security measures to include the whole street and the poor boy and his bouquet had been screened by over a dozen burly security agents before reaching him, Oz being the last of them and probably the more intimidating if the young man’s frightened sidelong glances were any indication.

There wasn’t a message but a simple elegant M calligraphed on a thick cream card with elaborate gilded edges. It had to be Moriarty. No one would think of sending _flowers_ to _John_. It was as ludicrous as sending a trampoline to your elderly grandma. John held the fragrant bouquet at arm’s length while Sherlock glared at them as if he hoped he could set them on fire. Great, Moriarty had ruined the smell of roses for him forever: he’d never be able to smell them again without his manic face popping into the picture.

“At least they’re not red,” John said, feeling somewhat relieved after the horror of the Fugees song. Still, being offered flowers by Sherlock’s arch-enemy felt wrong on so many levels he didn’t know where to begin, so he decided he might as well just throw the roses away right that instant and hope he soon forgot all about it.

“Is that all you know about flowers, John?” Sherlock asked, now amused.

“Are you telling me you’ve deleted the solar system, but know about the language of flowers?”

“Floriography. Of course I do. It’s quite useful for cases. It comes up more often than you’d think.”

“O~kay… I’m probably going to regret this, but what do white roses mean?”

“Spiritual love, but I’m assuming it’s because of your guardian angel status.”

John winced that wasn’t much better than red roses.

“Thorns for danger,” Sherlock continued, examining one of the roses before counting them. “Ten roses...he considers you’re perfect for him, and the long stems meaning he’s thinking of you and that his sentiments are deep and long-lasting.”

“Creep,” John muttered and went directly to the bin, dropping them in without a second thought.

 

The day after that, John was starting to feel stir-crazy so he busied himself by going through the growing stack of mail, the latest of which had just been heaped on top. But, upon opening the utilities bill, John found a love note instead, or what probably passed for one from his deranged fan.

_Soon._

He hated that that one simple word was enough to send a shudder down his spine. Sherlock had been right: Moriarty was toying with them. And now, he couldn’t even pay the electricity bill because of him. Annoyed, John ripped the note apart into tiny pieces and reached for the water bill.

_Do you miss me?_

John huffed, tore the note apart and reached for the next envelope which had his bank’s logo on it.

_I can take better care of you, Johnny boy._

“I don’t believe this!” John finally gave up, crumpled the note and made for the door, needing to blow off some steam, remembered he wasn’t supposed to leave the flat, kicked the door and turned around sharply to go into the kitchen instead. He would clean the fridge out, that always burned some steam off.

 

On the third day of this atrocious courting, John braced himself for some utterly creepy message or delivery to appear. He was so tense that he almost jumped out of his skin when Sherlock embraced him from behind, nuzzling his neck.

“You’re letting him get to you,” Sherlock murmured, his hands slipping under his shirt. “I don’t like the idea of you thinking of another man more than me.”

“You know- _ah_ ,” John breathed out when Sherlock nipped the lobe of his ear. “You know it’s not like that. You’re just looking for an excuse to take me to bed.”

“Do I need an excuse?” Sherlock mused, kissing along his jawline.

“Mhm...no, probably not,” John said, twisting around suddenly and pushing Sherlock back towards their bedroom, doing his best not to think about the fact that their bodyguards were standing vigil not far off in the other room and probably knew exactly what was going on.

“We’ll have to be quiet,” John panted once they were safely out of sight, tugging Sherlock’s shirt out of his pants and working on his buttons while his own fly and trousers were being tugged down.

“You can try, I don’t care either way,” Sherlock growled slamming him against the bedroom wall and pulling his jumper and shirt off together.

John looked at his lover’s heated stare and wicked grin, and pushed him back in the direction of the bed where he landed with a chuckle before scooting back. John closed the door as an afterthought, and got rid of what little clothing he had left before crawling over Sherlock’s sprawled body.

“You’re overdressed,” John stated looking at Sherlock’s exposed torso.

“Not my fault if you’re a slow undresser. You can’t expect me to do all the work.”

John nipped at his collarbone in retaliation, satisfied at the small yelp he got out of him and coaxed Sherlock out of the rest of his clothing. He let out a little sigh at the sight of his naked lover, spread unashamedly on their now rumpled bed and beckoning him closer. His lips did look much too under-kissed so John started working on that, until they were nice and swollen. Then, he got distracted by Sherlock’s erection which looked just as under-kissed as his lips had moments ago so he started working on that too, gently licking the whole side of his cock before swiping his tongue around the head and taking him into his mouth.

“Oh... God... John...” Sherlock panted haltingly, his fingers tugging carefully at John’s short hair, always mindful not to hurt him.

John flicked his eyes up, the sight of Sherlock becoming undone because of him making him more aroused than anything else could, his hips thrusting forward against Sherlock’s thigh of their own accord and he bit back a moan, disturbed by the audience on high alert they had next door. John wished he’d had the forethought of ordering them to just stick their fingers in their ears for a while or to just bugger off already. John fumbled for the bottle of lube with his free hand and managed to get it open and a dollop of it spread on his fingers without breaking the rhythm of his bobbing head, a feat he was quite proud of. He started preparing Sherlock, his slicked fingers stretching him slowly and drawing out a veritable symphony of moans out of him. Sherlock obviously didn’t care if they were being overheard… maybe he had a little kink going on there. He’d have to ask later, because right now, Sherlock was incapable of stringing two words together and it was beautiful. He was so beautiful and all his and he couldn’t get enough of him.

“Shhh,” John hushed him, smirking. “They’ll hear you.”

It had the expected effect: Sherlock shuddered and let out a delicious moan that might have been his name while he moved more frantically against him.

“John… more! Now!” Sherlock ordered and John readily complied, lubing himself up and lining himself up to slowly invade his lover, momentarily blinded by the sheer pleasure of it, he was cut off from the rest of the world, in his own little bubble of sensations and pleasure. So much so that he was certain he must have imagined the knock on the door.

He thrust into Sherlock again and again. He was so close already, and then... there was definitely a knock on the door and Clara shouting from right outside it:

“Sir, I think you need to see this!”

“Not now!” he barked angrily.

And Sherlock was coming with a deep groan rumbling through his body, his muscles clenching around John. John was both confused and satisfied, then frustrated and angry, because his own erection was definitely flagging, not because he was spent like Sherlock, but thanks to Clara’s untimely call, which could only mean Moriarty had sent another message. All and any lust he’d had just fled out of the window at the thought of Moriarty, replaced with anger and fear.

“I don’t believe this,” John growled, scooting back and off the bed.

Sherlock tried to make a grab for him but he was still completely out of it, a blissful expression on his face. John smiled at him and proceeded to wipe himself clean of the incriminating evidence of their late morning rump and get his clothes back on. Sherlock merely shrugged on his bathrobe and followed suit when he went into the living room.

Clara wouldn’t meet his eyes but pointed towards the telly which was already turned on the news channel, the volume low. John turned it up as he sat on the couch next to Sherlock and blanched when  he saw the headline at the bottom:

BOMBING AT WATSON TOWER

“That’s… It’s a coincidence, right?”

“A coincidence, John? Really?” Sherlock drawled lazily with hooded eyes, still basking in post-coital bliss.

Both their mobiles chimed at the same time, making John flinch. His own mobile was in his pocket, but Sherlock grumbled and went in search of his.

It was a text from Mycroft, with a picture attached. John’s mouth went dry, already imagining the worse, but he pressed to open the image:

OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!

It had been spray painted with the same red paint as the message across their flat, but the meaning was clear enough. John hadn’t heard those words since he was a little boy playing hide and seek in the school playground. He had been pretty good at hiding and more than once those words had been shouted just for him to come out of hiding so they could start a new game. That’s what Moriarty wanted. They were at a stalemate right now, but John couldn’t very well hide in 221B Baker Street forever…

Olly Olly Oxen Free: come out and play, Watson, or I’ll keep blowing stuff up until you do.

John looked at the picture one last time and sent a reply:

 

**Casualties? -JW**

**None. It’s a warning. There will be next time. -MH**

**There won’t be a next time. -JW**

 

John turned his phone off and pocketed it, then casually tucked his firearm in the back of his jeans. It wouldn’t be the first time he walked around the flat with his gun about him so it didn’t even earn him a raised eyebrow from either bodyguard and Sherlock was still cursing from the bedroom in search for his elusive phone. John glanced at the front door. That exit was out of the question: Clara and Oz would tackle him before he even stepped over the threshold, so he hurried up the stairs to his old room instead and locked the door shut. He unlatched the window which opened with a disused squeal worthy of a haunted house, peeked his head out and grinned when he spotted the ancient fire escape. His former room being more isolated and opening on the back alley above Mrs Hudson’s bins, it was connected to the rather old and dingy metal staircase which was missing half it’s railing near his window. John clambered onto it just as he heard urgent footsteps coming up from the living room. He couldn’t believe he was escaping his own flat like a common criminal, but it was the only way. As well intentioned as everyone was, they would never let him do what he had to do, and innocents would die because of him.

John looked down in the shadowed alley, only to see a couple of Mycroft’s men in black looking up at him.

_Up it is then._

John made it up to the roof and thanked the Gods the buildings around here were built so close together. It turned out to be laughingly easy to jump over to the next roof, thankfully a flat one, then onto the next, before making it down to another back alley by climbing down another fire escape, and out through a restaurant where Baker Street met Park Road. He didn’t see any of Mycroft’s men, but he doubted they had been given orders to arrest him, not right now anyway, so he strolled off across the street which was shaded by a crop of trees, and then another, before he disappeared into Regent’s Park. He doubted Mycroft had CCTVs in the trees, but didn’t relax until he made it far into the less travelled paths.

John knew what he wanted to do: end Moriarty, and he would do it without feeling any kind of remorse. He might even get some satisfaction out of it. However, he had no idea _how_ to do it. He would never find the consulting criminal on his own if even Mycroft with all his cleverness and people at his disposal couldn’t do it, so the best alternative was to let Moriarty find him. John faltered. As far as crazy plans went, this was his worst idea yet, but he was running out of options and out of time. He could not let Moriarty bomb a place full of civilians, it went against everything that he stood for, as a doctor and as a soldier.

 

“Looking for someone, honey?” a sultry voice said from behind him.

John whirled around, hand already at his back. If it was one of Mycroft’s, he wasn’t above threatening to shoot them. It was a bluff, of course, but with any luck, they wouldn’t know that. However the woman standing there didn’t look like anything that worked for the British Government: no stern face, drab clothing, obvious military training, weapons or blackberries. He considered briefly she might be a prostitute propositioning him, but her wardrobe told him otherwise: too expensive and too high-class.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The woman smiled and he took an instant dislike to her. She was beautiful at first glance and he might have chatted her up once upon a time, but she also looked haughty, especially because she was looking down her nose at him, perched as she was on her towering heels, and seemed to be laughing at his expense ever since he met her gaze. She probably was too.

“You can call me Irene... if you let me call you John,” she offered.

Irene? Now, why was that name familiar? Something to do with-

“Irene Adler?” he asked.

“Oh,” she cooed, pleased. “Did Sherlock mention me, then? He was such a naughty boy. He almost hoodwinked me before he decided to abandon our little game.”

John imagined she was talking about Sherlock trying to steal her phone at Moriarty’s command.

“Sherlock never mentioned you, no.” She blinked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he deleted your very existence. He does that, you know. No, it was Moriarty who told me about you.”

John watched her reaction very attentively. It was slight but her muscles stiffened ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth curving downwards before she caught herself and resumed her toothy smile. She knew Moriarty, enough that she feared him or the idea that he talked about her. Interesting.

“Shame. I was hoping Sherlock would finally accept to have dinner with me, but I can see you don’t share.”

John rolled his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“As I said, you seem to be looking for someone, and I have a fair idea of who that is, and I happen to deliver goods. We can help each other out.”

“You don’t look like the kind of person to bother with deliveries,” John replied looking pointedly at her very expensive, shiny, high-heeled shoes.

“We all have our speciality,” she said giving him a sly look that John wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to interpret. She couldn’t know about his little supernatural ability, could she? Impossible. He frowned at her, and she laughed.

“Oh, I can see why he likes you,” she said, but John wasn’t sure if she was talking about Sherlock or Moriarty and he wasn’t about to ask. She’d probably laugh again, which wasn’t the sort of answer he cared for.

“Did he send you?” John asked, trying to get back on tracks once more. “Did Moriarty send you?”

“No,” she said pointedly.

“Do you work for him?”

“No.”

“Are you… friends, then?”

“No.”

John huffed and crossed his arms.

“You’ve got to help me out here. I’m not just going to trust you blindly.”

“And I don’t think you have a choice. Moriarty wants to find you, and after what happened at Watson Towers, I imagine you wouldn’t mind finding him. But if that is not the case, I’ll just leave you be. Good day, John.”

She turned on her heels and took a few steps down the path before John called her back. He’d wanted a way to Find Moriarty and here was one, offered to him on a silver platter…

“Wait,” he muttered and she looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Alright, take me to him. But no funny business, and don’t warn him you’re coming.”

“It wasn’t my intention. He’s more generous when I bring him a surprise anyway.”

John followed the strange woman out of the park and into a luxurious black car which was very reminiscent of Mycroft’s. It even came with a phone-addicted PA that barely acknowledged his existence, so he felt quite at home as they drove around London.

They stopped at a restaurant of all places and John looked dubiously at the busy place because he had some difficulties imagining the criminal mastermind having _brunch_. He peered up at his guide, but she looked quite confident and led him inside. John had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it was a public space so Moriarty couldn’t go all trigger-happy on him, but on the other hand, that’s exactly what John had hoped of doing himself: pull the trigger as soon as he saw his face.

Status-quo, then. For now.

Moriarty looked to be having a business meeting of some sort with a bunch of...bankers. That’s what they looked like to him anyway, but they might be lawyers or whatever people with big salaries and briefcases did in offices. But Moriarty was still very aware of his surroundings and spotted the tall Irene almost immediately, looking nonplussed at seeing her there, before his face morphed into that creepy smile that made all the hair on his body stand on end.  

“Irene, darling. And Johnny boy!” he called after he waved dismissively at the bankers to leave and they approached his table. “Please, sit down.”

John elected the chair as far away from Moriarty as possible while Irene diplomatically elected a chair between the two men to serve as a buffer, or just to hold onto her delivery until she was paid.

“You always bring me the loveliest of gifts, my dear,” Moriarty said, eyeing John closely enough that he felt uncomfortable and fidgeted in his chair.

“I wouldn’t call it a gift,” Irene replied smoothly.

Moriarty chuckled and typed rapidly on his phone for a while before he twirled it between his fingers and pocketed it.

“There. I trust you’ll be satisfied?” he asked and Irene checked her own phone and nodded, getting up from her chair to leave. “Goodbye, John. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

John muttered a goodbye that sounded very much like a ‘fuck you’ to his own ears, and concentrated his attention on Moriarty instead. No one in their right mind bothers with a stray cat when they’re faced with a wild panther.

“I’m glad you could come, John. Did you like my gifts?”

“No. And you didn’t leave me much of a choice. All of London saw your invitation and I don’t want a repeat of that. So what now? Are you going to kidnap me again? Put me in a cage? Beat me up? Threaten Sherlock?”

“Aww, you make it sound so boring,” Moriarty said with a droopy pout of his lips. “Besides, we already did all of that. Do you really think I’m that predictable, Johnny boy? Think again!” he bellowed, loudly enough to make him jump in his seat.

Surprisingly, the rest of the occupants of the restaurant completely ignored him, only the staff looked slightly alarmed, but even they eventually resumed their work when nobody reacted. John took a better look at the people around him. Not the typical people you’d expect to see in a place like this.

“These are all your people?” John asked.

“Of course they are. And Sherlock thinks you’re an idiot.”

“No, he doesn’t,” John snapped.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” Moriarty sing-songed, leaning over the table to get closer to him.

John leaned back in his chair as far as he could, the gun digging against the small of his back. It was  painful, yet reassuring, to feel the hard piece of metal there.

“He doesn’t mean it like that. Compared to him, I actually am an idiot. Almost everyone is,” John muttered reluctantly, wondering just how Moriarty even knew about it.

“But not me. We’re two side of a same coin, Sherlock and I. You must see that now. I was fascinated when I did, and then I got bored again… and then I met you.”

John wrinkled his nose in distaste. Maybe he could just shoot him now and damn the consequences.

“So I just have to wait for you to get bored of me too? Is that it?”

“Oh, I don’t think that will happen anytime soon, Johnny boy. We’ll have fun together.”

John shuddered.

“You’re deluded if you think I’m going anywhere with you,” John said, freeing his hand from the iron grip he had on the edge of the table to sneak it towards his gun.

Moriarty kept his dark eyes on him and snapped his fingers. Immediately two of the fake brunchers  literally held up one of the waitresses between them, her feet not even touching the ground. Her green eyes were huge and full of fear as she looked between Moriarty and John, settling on him with a silent plea for help. John looked for the other staff members but they were now being held at gunpoint by other brunchers.

“This is Grace. She’s nineteen but lied to get hired. She abandoned her studies last year and works two jobs to pay for her mother’s hospital bills. Aww… isn’t that sweet? Say hello to Dr Watson, Grace.”

Grace looked stunned. She had obviously not shared any of her personal history with Moriarty so he must have deduced her just like Sherlock usually did, laying her life bare for anyone to hear. He and Sherlock really were alike in that aspect.

“H-Hello, Dr Watson?” she asked more than said, her voice quavering and her eyes darting between the two of them again.

“What are you playing at?” John hissed.

Moriarty just had to involve innocent civilians, didn’t he? He liked scaring the shit out of people. No he relished in the fear he was causing, he was almost bouncing in his chair as he waited for John’s reaction.

“Well, you see, Johnny boy, what’s so admirable about you is that I don’t even need to threaten you or  your precious Sherlock to get you under my thumb. If you refuse me, I can just pluck any random stranger off the road, like our dear sweet Gracie here, and snuff the life out of them, carving your name in their lifeless bodies and dumping them on your doorstep so you know they died by your fault. I’ll even sign the packages myself. You’ve seen my penmanship, it’s impeccable.”

The waitress let out a strangled sob and tried to struggle out of the grasp of the two thugs, but it was useless. Given her built, John doubted she could fight her way out of a wet paper bag, let alone against the two mountains of muscle currently bruising her arms.

John sighed. He was an idiot. Would anyone else but him cave to such blackmail? Sacrificing their freedom to save strangers they’d never so much as set eyes on before? Because he had already taken his decision. John couldn’t let him go ahead with his threat, and Moriarty was right: if Grace died today, it would be John’s own fault. He might as well take his gun and shoot her himself, she’d probably suffer less too. John hung his head, staring at his trembling hands, not wanting Moriarty to see the defeat in his eyes.

“Alright, let her go,” John muttered and heard a thud as the young girl landed on the tiled floor, her stifled sobs growing dimmer and dimmer as she scrambled back from their table.

“Very good, John. See? You _can_ learn,” John kept his head down but he would bet a tenner the madman was gloating. “And remember, there are plenty more where she came from.”

  
  
  
  



	18. In Limbo

Moriarty told John to leave his phone and gun on the restaurant’s table. John was glad he’d had the forethought of switching his phone off, or this meeting would have turned into a shooting massacre worthy of O.K. Corral once Mycroft had located him and sent his troops in. John didn’t mind so much leaving his phone behind as he did his gun. It had been very hard to resist not shooting Moriarty right in his smug, pointy little face when he had the familiar weight of his Sig snuggly in hand, his fingers curled around the grip and his index so close to the trigger. It was so very tempting, he was sure Moriarty saw it all, could read it on his face, plain as day. The madman probably got a kick out of it, a thrill that made him not so bored, even if just for a few seconds.

John could just end it here. He didn’t mind so much the guns aimed at him as he did those aimed at the restaurant’s staff. Gain and loss… Would it be worth it? The sacrifice of a cook, a busboy and the two waitresses? He met Grace’s teary eyes as she bravely tried not to cringe away from the barrel pressed against her temple and knew he couldn’t do it, no matter how logical it would seem to someone like Mycroft who could sacrifice pawns for the greater good without batting an eye.

John slowly put his gun down next to his phone and pushed both of them towards Moriarty, like a beaten general presenting his sword to his victorious enemy. There was just no winning against someone who had absolutely no scruples or morals.

“I’m sure Gracie will make sure your little friends at the Yard get these. As a souvenir,” he said with a smile and to John’s bewilderment, the man left a few notes on the table to pay for his meal. “Shall we?”

John reluctantly got up from his chair and inwardly cringed when Moriarty put his hand at the small of his back to hurry him along. John glanced one last time at the scene behind him. Moriarty’s men seemed in no hurry to leave, apparently staying long enough for their boss to be safely away before releasing the hostages who would waste no time in calling the police. He could only hope they all made it out safe and sound now.

 

* * *

 

 

The place Moriarty took him to was rather nice. Not comfortable and cosy like the flat he shared with Sherlock and which had felt like home ever since he’d moved in, but modern and unnaturally clean like those glossy pictures he’d seen on interior design magazines in newspaper stands, with too much white everywhere and large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. It was a sight better than the warehouse cell he’d been locked in the last time around. This was feeling less and less like a kidnapping, and more like a mandatory invitation. Moriarty was even being more or less pleasant, but John always expected him to blow up any moment at the slightest provocation, so he was weary and cautious around him in his efforts not to set him off.

Moriarty was looking at him right now, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as if he was expecting something.

“Erm...nice place?” John tried and was rewarded with a smile.

“Glad you think so. You’ll be staying here for the time being. I have business to attend to right now. I would have cleared my schedule if I had know you were so eager to arrive, so you’ll have to forgive me for my absence. I’ll be back later in the day though. Toodles!”

And with that, the madman was gone, the door slamming behind him. John gave himself a minute to relax. He’d been so tense in Moriarty’s presence, his shoulder was killing him and his heart rate was still pounding against his ribcage, demanding something to do with all the adrenaline flowing through his body. Then John peered around, surprised he’d just been left like that and half-expected some henchmen to step out of the walls, but no, he was truly alone. He walked over to the front door, turned the knob… locked. Predictable. He could always break the door open, or pick its lock, but then what? Go back to Baker Street and wait for someone’s corpse to be dropped off on his front porch?

_No._

He’d give almost anything to be back home with Sherlock, but not that. This was all a test, John  realized. Moriarty knew he could pick locks but he’d locked the door anyway. John took a few steps back into the main room. But how could Moriarty know if he picked the locks and left the flat for the duration of his absence? He’d said he wouldn’t be back before the end of the day.

He could have lied. Maybe he was still behind the door, waiting to burst in at any minute with some barmy jibe like “Honey, I’m home!”. It would be just his style, too. But surely a consulting criminal had better things to do with his time.

John turned on himself, inspecting the room and was surprised he found no cameras pointed at him. That had seemed like the most likely solution. Or was that too obvious? Did he use those tiny high-tech cameras Mycroft had planted in their flat. Sherlock had found them all in a matter of minutes but John wasn’t sure where to look, so he dawdled around the room, looking up, down, in the shelves full of decorative knick knacks, at the telly...stopping at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. It was obnoxiously big and had pieces of metal sticking every which way and crystals dangling from it… really not his style, but there was a piece that seemed out of place. He wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been specifically looking for it too. John pushed a chair under the chandelier to pull it off and turned the object in his hands. It did look like one of those Sherlock had drowned in acid, so… this whole place was probably bugged inside and out. He was about to go in search for the rest of them when there was a knock on the door.

His brain failed to catch up with the notion that someone was knocking on the door to what was essentially his prison, so it took him awhile before he answered.

“Err… Come in?”

Sebastian Moran stepped in, phone in hand, and seemed momentarily taken aback at seeing him there but schooled his features quickly enough.

“Again?” he asked, sounding slightly amused. “When Jim said we had a guest, I didn’t expect to see you of all people.”

John shrugged.

“He can be rather persuasive, can’t he?” Moran continued.

“You can say that,” John muttered, unnerved by the man being so chatty.

Maybe it was the guest versus prisoner status that made the difference for him. Moran took a step forward so John reflexively took a step back, his fist coming up. Moran stopped and extended his hand while holding the other up.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re a guest, remember? Just give me that camera. Jim asked me to put it back where it belongs.”

“Is the whole flat bugged then?” John asked, throwing the camera over to the other man.

Sebastian hummed as he fixed the device back to the chandelier, without the help of the chair. If that was an affirmative, that meant John couldn’t even take a piss or shower in peace. He’d just have to flush those cameras down the loo so they couldn’t be put back. He hoped they were expensive.

“Need anything while I’m here?” Moran asked once he had finished.

“A little freedom would be nice.”

Moran chuckled and left again, cautioning him against trying to leave. With nothing else to do, John explored the place. The main room was just a living room with a very comfortable couch and a working television. At least he wouldn’t be completely cut off from the world. There was the kitchen, fully equipped and stocked. It even had beer and a distinct lack of severed heads, which was a bit of a letdown coming from Moriarty. There was also a notable absence of knives. John couldn’t imagine using the dull-edged butter knives to attack Moriarty. He doubted he’d even manage to graze him, let alone cause any sort of flesh wound. He’d have better luck trying to strangle him. And even that would only be possible if Moriarty was stupid enough to come back alone that evening.

The room opposite the kitchen was a large bedroom with a bed so wide, John wondered if he’d have to share it with Snow White and her whole bloody team of dwarfs. The dresser and cupboards had been filled with clothes, all his size, he realized after a quick look-through, even the underwear… John slammed the bedroom door shut and checked out the bathroom before returning to the living room and falling face first into the couch. Was this his life now? A pretty, gilded cage?

 

John’s eyes blinked open some time later. He must have fallen asleep after all the excitement of that morning because his face was now glued with drool to the couch’s white leather. His first thought was for Sherlock, it didn’t feel right being so close, yet so far apart. He couldn’t let himself get all maudlin this early on though, so he sat up properly and searched for a clock, then reflexively searched for his phone and cursed when he could find neither. He turned the telly on because he knew the news channel always displayed the time. There, right at the bottom left corner of Sky News: 13:27, right next to an unflattering picture of himself.

John’s mouth fell open as he stared at the image. It was pixelated and blurry, taken in a hurry at the restaurant judging from what he was wearing and the setting. Had one of the hostages really had nothing better to do than take a picture of him while being held at gunpoint by an average of  3.5 thugs? The off voice of the news report was talking about a hostage situation and showed a brief interview of a young man he recognized as the busboy. He was probably the culprit of the stolen snapshot, then. Jeez, young people these days had a skewed sense of priorities. So far, the news got the story straight at least, a rare feat in itself, but then they started making parallels between him and the bombing, given they bore the same name. It was true, technically, there was a link between the two events, but it was not something he had thought would come up. Mycroft had probably arrived too late to smother all the media circus that was brewing.

John’s stomach growled. He should probably eat, keep his strength up in case Moriarty went full crazy and decided to starve him for fun, or just in case Sherlock needed him to intervene because of a Dream. John half-heartedly rummaged around in the fridge and found a ready-made meal from Tesco he only had to microwave: chicken tikka masala with rice. It didn’t sound too bad but it didn’t smell all that appetising once it was warmed over. When he came back, the news anchor had dug up his past in Afghanistan as a military and John was now apparently a bitter terrorist who had bombed the financial tower bearing his name, either because of the way the government treated veterans of the war or because he had somehow joined the Talibans’ cause. They didn’t seem sure themselves and were contradicting themselves more often than not, the idiots, and what the actual fuck? They had no grounds whatsoever to base any of this off, just his presence in Afghanistan, where he took a bullet for his Queen and country, thank you very much. Oh… and the gun. Bloody blabbering busboy had to mention that, didn’t he?

John had always hated the tabloid tendencies of the press and media in general, but this was plain slander. Did they just hope he’d be killed and never sue them for libel?

_Wankers. Vultures._

John turned the telly off and threw the remote at the window behind it. He felt only marginally better when the back popped open and the batteries fell out, messing up the spotless place just a little, making it not so very perfect. John had seen enough of the so called news to know he had no interest in watching the telly anytime soon anyway. He abandoned his meal too. The sauce had already began to congeal and it looked less and less appetizing by the second.

John paced around the room but it had never felt as small as it did right now. He looked out of the window at the city sprawled in front of him, but it only made him angry that people could think he, of all people, was one of the bad guys. _A terrorist!_ Really, that was a low blow. He wondered if Moriarty had planned all of this, of smearing his reputation, but even he, as much of a genius as he was, couldn’t have predicted that level of stupidity from the media.

Or maybe he’d paid them off to spout that nonsense? Or threatened them into it? He had both those means at his disposal. But… surely, he hadn’t had the time? Or was he just than many steps ahead of everyone?

Mycroft had better clean up this mess. This was all his fault in the end. John should never have trusted him and accepted to talk to Moriarty, and he should never have trusted him to keep the consulting criminal locked up.

And what was Sherlock thinking of it all? Probably nothing, he was always saying to let people talk, after all. Maybe he was right about that as he was right about mostly everything. God, he missed him so much already. How was he supposed to stay without him? The still very vivid image of Grace’s tearful face chased away that of Sherlock and his look of contentment that morning. He had to because he had no choice. A painful knot formed in his chest, his mind and his heart pulling in different directions. He’d have to live with the decisions he made.

John spun around the room again and cursed. There was nothing to do here! Nothing to vent his anger on, or just change his mind. There wasn’t a single book to be found, or even an old newspaper so he could do the crosswords. It was a prison after all, albeit a comfortable one, and all the company he had were his conflicting thoughts.

John decided for a shower in the end. He still reeked of sex from that morning and hunting down the hypothetical camera in the bathroom would keep him busy for a while.

 

* * *

 

 

John woke with a start, fighting off the feeling of vertigo he got from the London streets lit below him. After his shower, bored out of his mind, he had pushed the couch closer to the window to do some people watching. It wasn’t as fascinating without Sherlock next to him to whisper their dirty secrets into his ear, and he must have fallen asleep again. That was what was most annoying with captivity, being so bored you dozed off all the time.

He would have turned on the telly to check the time, but he didn’t want to see what the journalists were saying about him now. He might find out he was a serial killer who had stolen the crown jewels now. But he judged it was probably very early morning, around four, since his yet-to-be-shaped Dream had visited him. He usually slept through till morning though, so something must have woken him up. Not feeling the least bit sleepy anymore, John inspected the flat and found a note stuck to the fridge.

 

_Sorry I couldn’t come by sooner._

_I watched you sleep._

_xo_

_J._

 

John shuddered and crumpled the note, throwing it in the trash. Now he knew what had woken him:  the presence of the devil watching over his sleep. He knew Sherlock did it too, but at least he had the boyfriend status _and_ he didn’t brag about it the next morning.

Tea. He needed tea...

And then, the day dragged on… just like yesterday. Hours and hours with nothing to do. When he couldn’t take it anymore, John grudgingly put the remote control back together and switched the telly on. He could just watch whatever drama or reality shows were programmed in the middle of the afternoon, but he found himself leaving it on the news channel after he’d switched it on. It was half past five, later than he thought, and he wondered if his host/captor would be visiting today.

John was glad to see he wasn’t top news anymore. Apparently, a prominent member of the House of Lords had been caught on tape engaging in kinky, highly reprehensible activities with a couple of prostitutes. Bad luck for him, good timing for John though. There was still some talk about the bombing but it had quickly lost interest next to the high-profile sex and political scandal, especially since there had been no victims. John was just mentioned in passing as someone of interest to Scotland Yard. Did that mean he was a fugitive now? Ha! Good thing the country’s criminal mastermind was hiding him then. John’s chuckle died as soon as it had formed, it was a whole lot less funny with no one there to share the irony. God but he missed Sherlock and it had not even been two whole days yet. How long was this going to keep this up? Why was Moriarty even bothering? He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man since he had dropped him off into what he’d taken to calling the limbo: everything too white, too empty, too lonely…

John closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock. Where was he right now? What was he doing? He hoped he wasn’t running himself ragged again looking for him. Maybe he should have left him a note, telling him what he had to do, why he had to leave…

“Thinking of me?” a voice whispered in his ear.

John jumped about a mile off the sofa and toppled over to the other side, lying on the ground. Instinct. He’d taken cover and was grappling around in search of his gun, panting hard, before he regained his senses. What kind of idiot did that to someone who suffered from PTSD?

_The deranged kind, that’s who._

John glared at Moriarty who had walked around the sofa to face him with a contrite expression while John tried to get his breathing and shaking hands back under control.

“PTSD. Slipped my mind, silly me,” Moriarty said and kneeled down in front of John. “Here, put your head between your knees,” he ordered, moving John’s limbs about like a doll’s.

“I’m a doctor, thanks. I know what to do,” he growled but complied easily enough.

He was too nauseated to not do it just out of spite and he had to concentrate on not hyperventilating. Fuck, this was humiliating. He could deal with anything as long as he saw it coming. What was Moriarty playing at, sneaking in the flat and prowling up to him to scare the living daylights out of him? John stiffened when he felt the other man’s hand grasp his but he was only encouraging him to shake his arm to help get the blood circulating to his extremities again. John would have to walk around for a while too after that or his leg would stiffen up again, and he had no wish to see the return of the limp. Humiliating wouldn’t start to cover that development.

John opened his eyes and pushed off the floor once he felt more in control of himself.

“How about a massage? It would help your shoulder,” Moriarty said.

“No. No way. I still hate you. That,” John said pointing at the floor where he’d been sitting. “Was all your fault. Actually, hate is not strong enough. I despise you. You,” he articulated slowly, poking Moriarty’s suit-clad chest. “Repel. Me.”

John glared into those dark eyes. There was so much emotion there: amusement, fascination, but anger too. John took two quick steps back, almost tripping on his own feet. It was a very bad idea poking an angry psychopath and he’d literally done just that. He may not live long enough to regret it. John stared at Moriarty who stared back, and then laughed, or giggled. It was rather high-pitched, but just as chilling as the rest of his personality.

“Oh, John. You never cease to amaze me,” he said taking a step closer while John fought every instinct not to bolt and lock himself in the bathroom. “I’m never bored with you. It’s a shame you hate me so. And here I’d brought you a present.”

John frowned at him. He could just imagine the sort of present Moriarty thought was appropriate. What could possibly trump the nauseating bouquet of roses, creepy love notes and the bombing? John had to admit he was curious, he just had to ask. Call it morbid curiosity. And boredom.

“What is it?”

Moriarty smiled and dangled a phone in front of him.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not so, Johnny boy. Mind you, I’m not giving you the phone. Not until I know I can trust you with it. But I’ll let you call Sherlock, for five minutes. The only condition is that you don’t tell him where you are. Fair?” Moriarty asked, parroting John’s proposition from what seemed like a lifetime ago, down in Mycroft’s secret prison for supervillains.

John nodded eagerly. Sherlock! He could call Sherlock! He’d get a chance to hear his voice, explain why he’d left, apologize… Moriarty dangled the phone closer before snatching it back again.

“Say it, John. Say you promise not to tell where you are.”

John rolled his eyes.

“I promise.”

“Jim,” Moriarty added, the phone an inch away from his own hand. “Say my name, John, and the phone is yours.”

“Fine! Jim, there, I said it. Now give me the bloody phone.”

Moriarty grinned and put the phone in John’s hand, closing his fingers around it, before sauntering off to sit on the couch, looking perfectly at home. John had no time to dwell on it though. He had the means to talk to Sherlock right in the palm of his hand. He glanced at Moriarty and hurried off into the kitchen. The phone was a very basic one and only had one contact saved into it: Sherlock.

With a shaking finger, John pressed the call button and waited, holding his breath.

“Who is this?” came Sherlock’s voice, tightly controlled, picking up on the first ring.

“Sherlock? It’s me... John.” That was probably unnecessary. He half-expected Sherlock to retort ‘redundant’ but there was only silence on the other end of the line.

“Sherlock?”

“Where are you?” he demanded. “I’ll come and get you right now.”

“No. I… I can’t tell you. But I’m fine. Don’t try looking for me, Sherlock. I just wanted to tell you not to worry.”

“Not...worry?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. “John, you’re in the hands of a murderous maniac.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’m doing what I have to do so everyone stays safe.”

John heard someone in the background. Greg? And then Sherlock huffed, yelled for everyone to shut up.

“You can’t save everyone.”

“I can try.”

“You’re not being reasonable. We can find another solution.”

This time, it was John’s turn to huff in annoyance.

“Really? Do you have another solution? Right this instant?”

“Well...no.”

“Then I have to stay. I’m sorry to do this to you, I really am, but I won’t have people dying because of me. And I know you’re safe for now, Sherlock.”

John was reluctant to say more in case he was being eavesdropped on by the Yard, but knew Sherlock would understand he was talking about his Dreams, or lack thereof. His time was almost up anyway, he could hear Moriarty’s light footsteps approaching.

“I have to go, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I-”

“No! Don’t. John-”

And that was it. Moriarty plucked the phone out of his hand and ended the call. Too soon. John had a lot more to tell Sherlock, he hadn’t even been able to tell him how much he missed him, or that he loved him. John considered wrestling the thing back from Moriarty. It wouldn’t be difficult, he was of a height with him, but John was much more muscular than the slight Irishman. He should be able to overpower him easily enough. It didn’t look like he was even carrying a weapon, and he was here, alone, with him. He could end him and escape, and there would be no carved up bodies left on his doorstep as retribution.

In an instant, John lunged himself at Moriarty, landing the both of them in the living room. He pinned Moriarty to the carpeted floor by straddling his hips and his fingers curled around his pale neck, ready to squeeze the life out of him when the madman started laughing. _Laughing!_ Not the reaction he’d expected. Moriarty wasn’t even trying to fight him off.

“What?! What in the fuck is so funny?” John demanded, digging his fingers into his exposed throat to make his point across.

“You... Johnny boy,” Moriarty gasped. “You. Did you… really think... it would be... this easy?”

John frowned thinking on what he could have possibly missed, but Moriarty chose that moment to  wiggle beneath him and moan, clearly not in pain. Aroused. John scrambled back until he hit the wall, watching as the other man sat up to look at him in the eye.

“Sebastian is sitting outside that door,” Moriarty said and pointed at the front door. “Ready to shoot anyone who comes out who isn’t me. He’s very loyal, and very ruthless. Believe me when I say you don’t want him to exact revenge for my death. He’d kill everyone you ever so much as talked to, very slowly, very painfully, and make you watch. We don’t want any of that, do we?”

John shook his head, blanching. He had no doubt Moriarty was telling the truth. He’d already seen proof of Moran’s character before, and it explained why Moriarty had so carelessly came in alone and unarmed. John should have known better. Sherlock would have known. He was an idiot for even trying.

Moriarty stood up, smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit and took the two steps separating them, leaning over to pat John’s bowed head.

“Good boy,” he said and left, taking all and any hope away with him.

  
  
  



	19. Trust Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Abe for being such a huge help and a great friend and supporter. This chapter would have been stupid without her input.
> 
> I wouldn't mind your input too, dear readers, so don't hesitate to drop a word! Thanks :)

John didn’t see anyone for twelve full days after the incident with Moriarty. He should probably feel relieved to have been left alone, but at this point, John would take Moriarty’s insanity over the stifling loneliness without hesitation. He’d been locked up for two weeks now and had had about ten minutes of human interaction during all that time, if you counted Moriarty and Moran as human, that is.

John wasn’t like Sherlock. He couldn’t lock himself up in his head for days on end, not needing to talk to anyone, not feeling the weight of the isolation from the rest of the world pressing around him, stifling him, until he thought the loneliness would choke him… He’d never been this isolated, not even after his return from Afghanistan.

_Weak. You’re weak._

He thought he might even prefer his previous cell down in the warehouse. At least there was the constant struggle with the guards, and the possibility of escape giving him some sense of purpose. He’d felt more alive then than he did in this limbo. The effect was only felt more strongly because he was here voluntarily, sort of. Was it possible to die of boredom, or loneliness? He would have to ask Sherlock when he saw him again. If he saw him again.

John snuggled against his blue cardigan, the one he’d been wearing the morning he sought out Moriarty, the one Sherlock had offered him in compensation for the one he’d drowned in acid. The  others clothes he’d worn that day had been washed and returned by the mysterious fairies who stocked his fridge and vanished  his dirty laundry before it was returned without him ever seeing them. He suspected they came in the middle of the night when he Dreamed of incomprehensible swirls of colour or surely he would have been awoken by the intruders.

What annoyed John was that those clothes didn’t smell of home anymore, only of a strong, unfamiliar detergent. But he’d kept his jumper safe: sealed it in a bag and hidden it in the bedroom so the familiar smells of his home and his Sherlock still clung to the fabric. Sometimes, when he felt really down, he took it out and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes and imagining he was back in Baker Street, snuggling against Sherlock. But it never lasted and the bitter solitude flooded him again.

John hated himself when he heard the front door open, a sound he thought he might never hear again,  and he sat up straighter in the couch, his head swiveling expectantly towards the entrance.

_Like a well trained dog. Weak. Pathetic._

“Johnny boy!” Moriarty called cheerfully as if he hadn’t been ignoring him for so long, after all the trouble he went to to get him there in the first place.

John had honestly thought he’d been forgotten, and he found himself watching Moriarty attentively as he strolled over to the couch and sat next to him, as if it was the most fascinating spectacle he’d ever seen. It was, in a way. John had gotten so used to the white walls, white furniture and white nothingness of the flat that Moriarty, in all his creepy darkness -and blood red tie- looked completely alien. John wasn’t even mad at hearing the ridiculous nickname for once because he got to hear a human voice addressing him again. The telly was a poor substitute for company and it had gotten on his nerves after the first week, so he’d sort of broken it in a fit of anger.

“I hope you calmed down since my last visit. I really can’t afford to appear in public with those beautiful  bruises you gave me, John” Moriarty said, pulling his collar down to show what were clearly the shape of John’s fingertips, bruised into the pale skin of his throat, now a mottled yellowish colour.

John thought he should be proud of having inflicted that to Moriarty, he deserved much worse, but it only made him feel slightly sick, stirred up memories he’d rather forget.

“It sends the wrong message, you see. The rabble remember I’m only human and can be hurt. It’s made work soooo tedious.”

John said nothing. Partly because he’d just gotten so used to not talk, and partly because he knew being a smart mouth right now wouldn’t gain him anything. Moriarty had offered him the use of a phone the last time, if he could be trusted, but John had attacked him instead, proving he wasn’t, and he’d lost the one link he could have had with Sherlock, and been so isolated afterwards that he thought he’d go mad.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long. I’m sorry, I can see it doesn’t do you any good,” Moriarty continued when John failed to say anything.

John’s eye grew wide at that. Had Moriarty seriously just apologized to him? He just… didn’t seem the type to bother. Did he apologize to the other people he killed, blackmailed, kidnapped, stole from and God only knows what else, too? John snorted. Unlikely.

“Good, you’re still in there,” Moriarty said. “Tell me, can I get you anything to make your stay more bearable?”

John thought about it. He had immediately wanted to ask for the phone back, but he doubted that would be an option, not after what he’d done. He could feel this was another test, a game for Moriarty, toying with him again. If he asked for too much, he probably wouldn’t get anything at all, so he had to find just the right item. Something Moriarty couldn’t refuse. His laptop was out of the question, of course. It would be too easy to contact Sherlock if he had access internet. What he really needed was something to pass the time, to get his mind off things.

“Books. Lots and lots of books,” John said, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

Moriarty smiled and nodded like a magnanimous God granting a mortal his wish.

“This place is rather incomplete without a proper library, but it was never really meant for long stays. I’ll have that taken care of the next time I come.”

“Thank you,” John replied without thinking, letting go of the breath he’d been holding and then slapping both his hands on his mouth, blushing. What was he thinking. Thanking his jailor? Seriously, what was wrong with him?

_He’s messing with your head. Don’t talk to him. Ignore him._

His inner voice was sounding more and more like Sherlock, but Moriarty was only smiling at him like Christmas had come early. But not mocking him, not rubbing it in his face as he would have expected.

“How have you been sleeping? No bad Dreams?” he asked.

John shook his head. Sherlock was safe.

“That’s good. You know I’m holding my end of the bargain that way, right?”

John nodded, not understanding what Moriarty wanted from him. He did want to ask after Sherlock, but didn’t think that was a wise move at this point. Couldn’t risk the books. So he was surprised when  it was Moriarty who offered to fill him in of his own accord and John drank in every word: Sherlock was working on a case with DI Lestrade after the man had begged him for two days straight but he was still looking for John on the side, not that he was getting any closer, even with his brother’s help; their old landlady was making sure he ate everyday and-

“Yes?” John prompted.

Moriarty made a face and dismissed him with a wave of his hand, suddenly taking his leave. John wanted to know what he was hiding from him. Because he was, there was no denying it. There was something about Sherlock he was not saying, something he found… distasteful? But it was hard to tell what that would be for someone like Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock had taken up charity work, or adopted a puppy, or taken up knitting with Mrs Hudson? He had no idea but it worried him. He might be injured, nothing life-threatening, obviously, or he would know, but-

“I’ll be back soon,” Moriarty said, cutting through his thoughts.

“Soon?” John asked, following him to the door, because he really wanted those books in short order, and having company, even his, had been… nice. Moriarty had actually been pleasant now that he thought about it, which was both unexpected and worrying.

“Very soon,” the other man replied with a grin and pecked him lightly on the lips before shutting the door in his face.

_Fuck._

John stood there like an idiot for much too long, staring at the closed door, trying and failing every time to understand what had just happened.

_Why? Just… why?_

John had tried to kill him just a few days ago, for crying out loud! So why would he kiss him?

_Isn’t that why he wanted you here in the first place?_

It was. John should have seen this coming, but since he’d been mostly ignored by Moriarty, he had concluded he’d imagined it all and that Moriarty had only ‘courted’ him to anger Sherlock, or just because it amused him to see them squirm. John brightened up. Maybe that was it: Moriarty was just messing up with his mind again, trying to get a rise out of him. But whatever the case may be, he’d be keeping his distance from now on.

 

* * *

 

Moriarty visited early the next day while John was washing up the dishes he’d used that morning. He hated that he felt relieved at seeing him so soon. That wasn’t normal.

_Don’t feel bad. Right now, you’d even be glad to see your drunk dad about to beat the shit out of you._

Nevertheless, John kept a safe distance from him, even as he spotted the two books Moriarty had tucked under his arm. He tried to glimpse the titles, hoping it wasn’t something he’d read already, so starved was he for entertainment, but everytime Moriarty tried to approach him, John would shuffle away.

“I’m not going to eat you, John. Do stop fidgeting so I can give you those books you asked for.”

John narrowed his eyes at him. He could just make out the warning under his light tone.

_I’m not going to eat you...yet. Stop fleeing or say good-bye to the books._

Or was he just imagining that too? However, John wasn’t going to cower. He’d faced worse, so he squared his shoulders and walked up to Moriarty, extending his hand for the books: one detective novel he’d never heard of but which made him smile because the character on the front cover was wearing the most ridiculous deerstalker hat; the second book was titled _Visions and Premonitions Through the Ages_ and looked surprisingly serious given the subject. John couldn’t help but be surprised at the choice in literature: it was very thoughtful and he knew he’d actually enjoy reading both books.

“Thanks,” he said, because he wanted more books like those in the future.

“I knew you’d like those.”

“If you know me so well, then why in heaven’s name did you send me flowers and those godawful notes?”

“Oh, those?” Moriarty asked, grinning toothily. “Yes, those were just to piss off Sherlock. Did it work?”

“Well… not really, actually,” John admitted, frowning.

In fact, Sherlock had seemed more interested in decoding the bouquet with his florio-thingy than getting rid of it, and John wasn’t even sure he knew about the notes. John hadn’t bothered mentioning them, but Sherlock rarely missed anything. Strange. Moriarty pouted at the admission, probably annoyed that one of his evil plans had not turned out the way he’d expected.

“Here, maybe you should call him. It’s been a while,” Moriarty said dangling yet another phone in front of John’s nose, who tried to catch it. “Nuh-uh! What do you say, Johnny boy?”

John rolled his eyes.

“I promise not to tell Sherlock where I am,” John parroted and was subjected to the other man’s raised eyebrows. “Jim,” he finished lamely, but he’d gladly sink to lower levels to get the chance to talk to Sherlock.

Moriarty handed him the phone but kept his hand on John’s, stopping him from retreating to the kitchen.

“Five minutes. And… Don’t be too surprised if Sherlock seems a bit preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied… How exactly?” John asked.

“He’s had guest visiting Baker Street very regularly ever since you left.”

“A guest?” Sherlock wouldn’t put up with someone he didn’t want there. He could probably think of a thousand and one ways to send anyone unwelcome running and screaming within a couple of minutes if he put his mind to it.

“Irene. I did warn you about her. But did you li~sten?”

John scowled. There was no way Sherlock was putting up with that she-devil. He’d never even mentioned her. He yanked his hand away from Moriarty’s slack grip and stomped into the kitchen, calling the only number saved into the phone without further delay. His heart beat hard as he listened to the ringing tone. It picked up on the fourth ring this time and he’d almost given up with a heavy heart but it stopped beating altogether when a woman’s voice answered. It was definitely not Mrs Hudson’s.

“Is Sherlock there?” he managed to get out.

“John? Is that you? It’s Irene!” she gushed, confirming what he already knew, and John hated her more than he thought he could ever hate anyone. “How’s Moriarty’s Bed and Breakfast treating you?”

What the hell was she playing at? Invading _his_ home and answering _his_ boyfriend’s mobile?

“Just… get Sherlock on the phone. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Oh. Grouchy. One moment, he’s still sleeping,” she said and he could hear the rustle of cloth.

John’s blood froze. What… What the hell was that about? Was she _in bed_ with Sherlock? No… there had to be another explanation.

“John?” came Sherlock’s voice, slurred by the sleep still clinging to him.

“Sherlock,” he breathed into the phone, tearing up at just hearing his voice.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked worriedly, more alert now.

“Yes, fine… just fine. I’m glad to hear your voice, that’s all.”

“So am I. I was worried not to hear from you for so long. He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

“No. Don’t worry. He’s been treating me well…” he let hang  _for a psychopath_. No need to anger Moriarty since he was probably eavesdropping from the next room, and no need to worry Sherlock by telling him he’d almost gone insane from his forced isolation either.

“I’m still looking for you, John. Won’t you tell me where you are. Please?”

John shook his head, more to convince himself since Sherlock couldn’t see him. It was so tempting.

“I can’t.”

Sherlock sighed.

“We’re working on something. I can’t tell you what, but I’ll find you, John.”

“We?”

“Irene and I-”

“Irene,” John growled, unable to hold back his building hatred for her any longer. “Irene doesn’t do anything for free, Sherlock. What did she ask from you? And why is she there? Why is she even answering your phone?” John demanded, exasperated and more than a little annoyed that the woman had managed to dig her claws into Sherlock once more.

“That’s irrelevant, John, and she only wants me to solve a little puzzle. It shouldn’t take me more than a minute. I’d hardly call that onerous. Wait… are you jealous?”

“No,” John snapped because that was hardly the issue here.

“John-”

“No. Just forget I said anything. And be careful. You’re not in any danger that I know of, but we’re still not sure of how advanced a warning I can get… I miss you, Sherlock,” he added quickly, seeing Moriarty grinning from the doorway. His time was up and the phone was out of his hand before he could hear Sherlock’s reply.

John waited, standing awkwardly, his head bowed so Moriarty couldn’t see his emotions boiling over. It wouldn’t take much to set him off now and he didn’t want to lash out at his captor, knowing it would cost him what little privileges he had gained.

“It won’t work,” Moriarty said out of the blue.

“What?”

“Whatever Sherlock has planned with that traitorous tart. It won’t work. With each move he makes, I’m always one step ahead. He can’t ever reach you, John, and you won’t go to him. You know the truth of it already, and I’m sure Sherlock will soon realize it too. It’s over.”

 

* * *

 

_It’s over._

Those words plagued John more than he cared to admit and he was sure he’d have nightmares if he was still capable of them. The unwavering certainty when Moriarty had pronounced them had felt like a death sentence and it was, in a way. The abrupt end to his life at Baker Street, to his burgeoning relationship with Sherlock, of his hope for everything to return back to normal one day.

He didn’t have nightmares but he was plagued with insomnia instead, and had even been swept unwillingly into the nonsensical swirl of colours of his mandatory Dream on more than one occasion when 3 a.m. came around, which always left him disoriented for hours afterwards, especially now that he had nothing to hang on to.

As a result, John went through books like a hot knife through butter, meaning Moriarty had been visiting more and more often in the last week with new bundles of carefully chosen books under his arm. He’d taken to staying for a chat too, for tea and sometimes appeared with take-away for dinner, going so far as to keep him company late into the night when sleep wouldn’t come for either of them. John now understood how Molly could have fallen for his act, for believing he was just a charming, funny bloke, because he truly was… once he left his evil kingpin persona at the door. John found himself  reluctantly enjoying his company and had to keep reminding himself that he was the enemy, that this was all his fault. True to himself, Moriarty would explode into a mad rage from time to time, but it was rarely directed at him.

Except for the time he found John’s blue sweater, just as he was about to leave for the night. John had become careless the more he got used to being around Moriarty and the other man hadn’t been pleased. At all. John didn’t know how the man knew what it represented to him, but Moriarty took a savage pleasure out of ripping the sweater in two and it might as well have been his heart. Then, Moriarty cornered John against a wall and gripped his chin painfully to force him to look into his dark eyes, his face so close he could feel his breath ghosting his skin. He looked completely insane and John felt a tremor of fear run through him as he tried not to struggle against him to get free.

“And here I thought we’d been doing so well,” Moriarty rumbled, his accent heavy, then as if a switch had been flipped, his anger evaporated and he pouted. “I’m sooo disappointed.”

Moriarty let go of his hold and took a step back to look at him critically. John recognized that look. It was the one he had given wounded soldiers on the battlefield before making snap decision about what to fix and what couldn’t be fixed, no matter how hard he tried. That look scared him more than anything else, more so because he had no idea _what_ Moriarty thought needed fixing, and _how_ he went about fixing people, but John doubted it was anything pleasant. John might have to fight for his life after all, and he knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t feel so happy at the prospect, that there was something seriously wrong with him.

But before any sort of confrontation could take place between the two, John stumbled on his feet, barely catching himself against the wall, and blinked, a look of horror slowly dawning on his face while Moriarty looked at him curiously, his head cocked to the side. It was very late, well into the night, and the Dream was upon him. Whether it was a real vision this time or just the usual patchwork of colours, John didn’t know, but he could feel the Dream pulling at the edges of his consciousness, trying to drag him down. He couldn’t fight it, he’d tried everything he could think of before, and he couldn’t fight Moriarty either if he had a Dream. He couldn’t fight even when he wanted to. John knew a lost cause when he saw one and he gave up, closing his eyes, already gone by the time his body hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

“John?” a soft, familiar voice called.

John grumbled, not wanting to wake up. For once, he was sleeping, felt warm, comfortable and safe with the knowledge that someone was looking over him, and he was just not thinking. It was great. Not thinking was a the best feeling in the world. He should just get a lobotomy and live a happier life. He snuggled deeper into the pillow.

When John woke up some time later, it was still early enough to be dark out and he found himself  exactly where he had fallen on the ground earlier, the only difference being that he was using Moriarty as a pillow, who in turn was idly letting his fingers play in his short blond hair. John sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and stared at the other man.

“Finally awake? I always thought sleeping like the dead was an expression, but I have to admit you make a good impression of it.”

Moriarty chuckled at his dumbfounded expression while John tried to process the chain of events that had led to this.

“I was worried and decided to look over you for the night,” Moriarty finally said, probably getting tired of waiting for John to get over his shock. But his shock only grew when he noticed Moriarty had covered him with his own suit vest so he wouldn’t be too cold. John shrugged it off.

“There was nothing to worry about,” he muttered, looking away.

“You swooned. Right into my arms,” the other said cheerfully.

“I don’t _swoon_ ,” John said irately, preferring anger over shame.

“Again, you make a good impression of it. I thought of getting Sebastian to help me put you to bed, but you wouldn’t let go of me, so I stayed.”

“I don’t believe you,” John said bluntly.

“You can lie to yourself, Johnny boy,” Moriarty replied, leaning into his personal space. “But you needed someone, and I was there.”

That had the merit of shutting him up, but he denied it anyway.

“I don’t need anyone.”

“Are you always that helpless when you Dream? Anyone could do anything to you, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Com-ple-tly help-less,” Moriarty articulated, his words ending with a gigantic boom that vibrated throughout the building.

John would have wondered if Moriarty had planned that on purpose since he liked the drama so much, but the other man looked just as stunned as him. Not something he had planned then. A minute later, Moran burst through the door, yelling at his boss to get out. _Right now!_ Moriarty was up and about a few seconds later and urged John to hurry.

“The Iceman?” he asked Moran as they made for the front door.

John’s heart soared with hope. He would have made a break for it right there, right then, but Moran must have seen it coming because he was keeping a firm hold on his arm and the man was as strong as an ox.

“No, not him,” Moran growled. “The Triad from the looks of it. Don’t know how they got a whiff of this place, or why they think they can get away with it, but we’d better hurry. They’re very determined to storm the whole building and they’re using the big guns.”

Moriarty growled and switched places with Moran so his second could lead the way out, sweeping every corner and every door with his gun before he moved. He was very thorough. Meanwhile, Moriarty handcuffed his right wrist to John’s left.

“Really?” John asked, holding his hand up.

“Can’t risk losing you,” the other man winked and nicked a gun off of Moran to cover their backs.

John had never felt so utterly useless before. He’d either get out of this by being a burden, or he’d be killed along with Moriarty. Just peachy. Their small group made it to a large stairwell, having smartly avoided the deathtrap that was the elevator, when they were eventually caught up from behind, bullets singing around them. And knives, John soon discovered when one pinned him to the wall by his clothes. He yanked it out and kept it with him. He couldn’t throw a knife to save his life, he’d tried but never mastered the skill. It would be good enough for hand to hand combat if things came to that though, or so he thought before Moran confiscated it to block the door handles to the stairwell, creating an efficient barricade between them and their pursuers, but it also meant John was back to being useless and defenseless, so he sulked. Not for long though, because they were ambushed at the next landing.

“They’re coming up the stairs too,” John muttered, crouching to avoid the onslaught of fire power.

“Run!” Moran ordered when the landing was cleared by more of Moriarty’s men who'd just cleared that level. “About time!” Moran growled at the backup team when he walked up to them.

“The whole place is swamped,” a ginger kid muttered, looking like he was leading the group by default and not liking it one bit. “We already lost half our men and I haven’t heard from the second team. The damn chinks are everywhere.”

Moriarty cuffed him over the head with a severe expression.

“What did I say about racial slurs?” he admonished.

“Not to use them, sir,” the ginger answered obediently, looking at his feet.

“Can we get a move on?” Moran barked and the men got back in place, cutting short this surreal scene and pushing everyone forward so he could cover their backs since that’s where the danger allegedly was now. Moriarty tugged on the handcuff as he ran down this carpeted corridor, accidentally propelling John a few steps in front of him, which gave him just enough time to glimpse the black-clad men lying in wait in the next room with their guns drawn. They’d let Moriarty’s henchmen run past without firing, waiting for their target, which was probably Moriarty himself. Smart. John dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks, bringing Moriarty down with him and covering both their heads just as all hell broke loose. Glass, plaster and wood rained down on them, but it didn’t last long. Moran who had been right behind them fired back immediately while the backup team backtracked and added their own tuppence to the standoff.

“Up,” Moran said, pulling John up by his belt and Moriarty by his shirt as if they weighed nothing,  and pushing them forward again. They reached another stairwell, much smaller and devoid of even a simple layer of paint, but which seemed empty for now so they ran down, and down, making John’s head spin with all the sharp twists and turns, their flight made awkward by the handcuffs.

John sighed in relief when he ran out of stairs.

“This way,” Moran ordered, gesturing for them to follow. He kicked a door open, swiping the dark space with his gun before taking a step in and promptly getting shot, falling where he stood and blocking the door wide open, turning the rest of them into easy pickings in the lighted, narrow corridor. The kind of place where the lights automatically switched on when there was movement.

“Fuck,” John cursed when the first shots started aiming for them and one of Moriarty’s men fell with a groan.

John snatched the gun out of Moriarty’s hand, annoyed his left had been handcuffed as he had to aim with a Moriarty-handicap. But the other man quickly understood his goal and helped him along.

John took aim, and in three quick shots, the lights burst into showers of sparks before plunging them in darkness. He handed the gun back and crawled forward, bringing Moriarty forcefully after him. John searched for Moran’s pulse, immediately noticing the lack of blood. He prodded the man’s chest and chuckled. “Kevlar. Smart man.”

Moran had only had the wind knocked out of him and he would have some impressive bruises if they made it out of this alive but would otherwise be fine, so John took great pleasure in slapping the man into wakefulness again.

“Wakey, wakey Seb,” Moriarty cooed, lying hip to shoulder on the floor next to John since the corridor was so narrow.

“Make yourself useful and shoot a couple of rounds out there so they don’t come sniffing around,” John snapped at him while he slapped Moran extra-hard and was rewarded with a coughing fit.

“Fuck… that hurt,” Moran muttered, rubbing his chest and already moving to stand up with John helping him along and then supporting his weight while Moriarty shot at random in the dark, laughing maniacally.

“Barrage fire, boys,” Moran grunted at the other men behind them, before pushing John away, already back on his own two feet, which was pretty impressive. “We’re heading for the tank.”

John frowned, certain they couldn’t possibly have a _tank_ at their disposal. This wasn’t a fucking battlefield in the middle of the desert, even if it did look a lot like it right now, they were in the middle of London, for crying out loud!

“The boys” ran out the doorway with blazing guns, shooting in all directions while the three of them made their escape and hurried towards what was not a tank but just a car. John looked at it dubiously while Moran opened the passenger door, so his back was turned when Moran received a kick out of nowhere that sent him bouncing off the car. John winced, he might be out cold for good this time.

Turning around when you’re handcuffed and uncoordinated can be an awkward affair at the best of times, so John considered it a success when he and Moriarty only bumped into each other twice before coming face to face with their new adversary.

“John?” Moriarty asked calmly.

“Uhm?” John replied, too stunned for words.

“Is that a ninja?”

  
  



	20. Fighting an Uphill Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments, they kicked my butt into laying this chapter out faster than I would have thought possible.  
> Thanks to my friend Abe for her unwavering support.  
> Now, buckle up, because you're in for one hell of a ride.

“Is that a ninja?” Moriarty asked.

The figure facing them was rather small and dressed all in black, including a hood that hid most of his face, leaving only his dark slanted eyes visible. Honestly, he looked a bit ridiculous and not all that threatening, but he had taken Moran out with just one kick.

“Maybe he’s just cold,” John replied because he had never seen an actual ninja, hadn’t known they existed outside of bad television shows, although he supposed it did make sense the Triad would send in ninjas.

He shouldn’t have joked though, this wasn’t the time, and Moriarty, who was unbalanced at the best of times, burst into a fit of giggles again. Their adversary took the opportunity to do an impressive, and completely unnecessary, round kick that sent Moriarty’s gun flying right out of his hand, vanishing into the dark shadows of the underground parking with a metallic clang. Moriarty wasn’t laughing now, he looked positively pissed and even if it seemed the ninja had the upper hand right then, John wouldn’t have bet on an easy victory on his part. Besides, John was there too, an unwilling partner, but a partner nonetheless and he was rather good at beating the shit out of people who tried attacking him. But, before he could do anything, the ninja landed three swift blows on Moriarty who sagged down against the car next to Moran and it was all John could do to try defending the other man before he found himself  handcuffed to a bloody corpse. If he couldn’t move, he was done for. Finally, John managed to sneak in a powerful knee jab when his opponent came too close, which sent him  reeling back and John pulled Moriarty up. He didn’t look too damaged, stunned mostly.

“You okay?” John asked, glancing warily between the ninja and Moriarty.

The latter nodded, but looked a bit green around the gills. It would have to do, though, because he doubted karate-kid would give them a break.

“You ever watched catch on the telly?” John asked, pushing the other man’s head down just in time  when he saw another kick coming his way.

The gleam in Moriarty’s eyes told him he had and, with the barest of nods, they ran towards the ninja, using their handcuffed arms to bowl him over. Their adversary landed on his back, but was back up on his two feet within seconds, as if he was made of rubber and had just bounced right off the hard concrete floor. John who had planned on just dropping on him, elbow first, took a defensive stance instead, but was hampered once more by the handcuffs.

“Don’t suppose you can get these off now?” he muttered, deflecting a couple of swift blows to his side.

The ninja didn’t hit all that hard, but he was incredibly fast and always aimed for sensitive spots, pressure points in particular, which explained why Moran was down and why Moriarty was so dazed after only a few light hits.

“Seb’s got the key,” Moriarty answered, taking a hit in his ribs while he was distracted, glancing at his friend’s prone body lying by the car, now behind their attacker.

“Of course he has,” John said, covering for Moriarty who was wheezing and not doing a very good job of defending himself.

John caught the ninja’s leg mid-kick as he tried to get to Moriarty again, but his attacker gave another twist of his body and escaped John’s grip. “Fuck. It’s like trying to fight against a demented grasshopper. He’s just jumping all over the place.”

The ninja then changed tack and tried avoiding John altogether to get to Moriarty, but when he couldn’t because the handcuffs kept them close together, he disappeared into the shadows.

“What the hell is he-” John said, freezing when friggin shurikens came flying at them.

Once more, John threw himself to the ground after getting hit by one of the sharp spiky objects in the thigh, but he lacked the momentum to bring his handcuffed partner down with him this time and he heard the other man’s pained hiss when he was hit. John pulled the shuriken out, crouched and threw the both of them behind another car for cover. He eyed and prodded the other man quickly for any serious injury but Moriarty batted his hands away.

“You can undress me later if you insist,” he said with a mischievous smile. John snorted. “But for now, we have to get rid of that nuisance, he’s just buying time for his little friends to get here.”

John listened, gunshots were getting louder in the underground space and he wondered if it was Moriarty’s backup that had arrived, or the Triad’s men lost in the building who had finally made it down. He had to cut this short. Easier said than done, though. John listened, trying to pinpoint the ninja’s location when he simply walked out of the shadows again… pulling a short sword, or a very long dagger, from behind his back.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” John growled, and pulled Moriarty out of the confined space between the two cars where they would be too easy to cut down.

“Oh… looks like he decided to take matters in his own hands,” Moriarty commented, looking over John’s shoulder, as if it was only a mild annoyance and not a truly life-threatening situation, then leaned over to whisper: “The gun is ten steps to your right.”

John glanced over to a dark patch that seemed miles away given there was a very sharp blade in the way and no way for him to deflect it without risking serious injury. He’d just have to… avoid it. Fuck, how did he get himself in these crazy situations?

“Now!” John shouted after he threw the shuriken very clumsily towards the ninja’s face, hoping it would distract him enough while the two of them lunged to the side, their linked hands coming up to point the gun at the ninja who froze where he stood, arms raised and ready to make mincemeat out of them. Then, for no apparent reason, Moriarty bowled the ninja over, kicking the blade under a car while John was pulled off balance and fell face first against the concrete floor. Moriarty soon joined him there, thrown over by the amazing bouncing ninja who was once more back on his feet, looming over them. John had had enough and took aim at their attacker, pressing the trigger.

It clicked empty.

“Oh, for the love of-” John growled, now understanding why Moriarty had tackled the ninja. “You might fill me in next time.”

Moriarty shrugged and pointed out that the ninja was at least swordless.

“Right, well, sorry about this, Jim,” John said and all but threw Moriarty at the ninja, distracting him long enough to slip into his space and hit him as hard as he could right under the chin with an upwards thrust with the palm of his hand before he was pulled down by his linked wrist. He saw with satisfaction the hooded head snap back and the eyes glaze over as the ninja fell heavily to the floor.

 _Not getting up this time_ , he thought smugly, but just to be sure, he rolled over Moriarty and onto the ninja, straddling him around the waist before hitting him in rapid succession in the solar plexus, throat and nose, deciding that adding the temples might be a bit overkill.

“Alright, that should do it. Up!” he ordered, hefting Moriarty up by the armpit.

They ran to the car, finding the keys still clenched in Moran’s hand. It took them way too long to heave the heavy unconscious man into the car but Moriarty refused to leave without him, which John  understood. He wouldn’t leave without Sherlock if he could help it.

“I’m driving!” John announced triumphantly, holding up his handcuffed left hand.

Moriarty grinned and threw him the keys. John caught them and went to the driver’s side while Moriarty went to the passenger’s, the metal cuffs abruptly stopping them as they dug painfully into both their skin. They glared at each other before both went in through the passenger’s door.

“You’d better find those handcuff keys soon,” John muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather like this,” Moriarty replied, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Have you forgotten what I did to the ninja already?”

“No?”

“That was with my right hand,” John said cooly. “I’m left handed.”

It only made Moriarty laugh and John sped towards the exit, bullets digging into the car’s body and windshield with loud impacts but never penetrating. A bulletproof car. A tank, of sorts, which had been a good idea given the two sentinels posted there that greeted them with heavy fire as they roared out into the open and onto the street. John drove as fast as he could but he was soon slowed down by the heavy London traffic until Moriarty gave him directions to avoid busy streets and they entered a private garage in the suburbs.

They didn’t speak as Moriarty finally uncuffed him after fishing out the key from one of Moran’s many, many pockets. They didn’t speak as they heaved the heavy man up a set of stairs and onto the too short sofa of a dark living room, nor did they speak while wrestled the man out of his clothes and bullet proof vest. They didn’t speak simply because they didn’t need to. They worked well as a team, but John shoved  that notion to the back of his head and struggled to get back to being a doctor rather than a soldier. As expected, Moran only had a lot of bruising and a lump on his head where he had hit the car, but nothing they needed to worry about.

John finally let himself sag in one of the seats dotting the place and closed his eyes, exhausted beyond belief, until a smile tugged his lips upwards.

“What?” Moriarty asked curiously and John opened his eyes to find that he too had fallen back into one of the chairs, looking more dishevelled and… normal than he’d ever seen the man before.

“I can’t believe we fought a _ninja_ ,” John said and chuckled, because saying it aloud made it seem all the more ludicrous.

“I can’t believe you _threw me_ at a ninja,” Moriarty shot back, his eyes crinkling with amusement at seeing him falling apart with laughter, but it was just so funny.

“I knew you’d be fine. You’re harder to kill than a cockroach.”

“I don’t know,” Moriarty said pensively. “I think I might have been done for this time if you hadn’t been there. I’m the brains, not the muscle.”

John snorted. That much had been obvious. Then he stiffened when he felt the cushion of his armchair dip.

“Moriarty,” he growled warningly at the man half-straddling him.

“Oh, come now, John. You called me Jim, before, don’t play coy with me now.”

John scowled at him, but he had, hadn’t he? In the heat of the action.

“Fine… Back off, _Jim_.”

“But we make such a good team. You’ve seen it yourself, you can’t deny it.”

John clenched his jaw. He had seen it, but it didn’t mean anything. John had always been good at teaming up, just because that wasn’t the case for Moriarty, it didn’t mean a damn thing. John pushed him back, not in the mood for his little mind games, when Moriarty yelped in pain, falling back in his own chair, muttering as he pulled his shirt away from his chest and winced.

“I hate ninjas,” he declared. “Might have to think about hiring a few though.”

John rolled his eyes and tiredly got out of his chair.

“Where’s your first aid kit? And please don’t tell me you don’t have one because that would really be idiotic given your line of work.”

“Bathroom.”

“Right, lead the way. I might as well patch you up before you bleed out all over the place. I somehow doubt Sleeping Beauty over there will forgive me for that,” John said, pointing his thumb back at the prone form of Moran spilling out of the sofa as he snored lightly.

Moriarty chuckled and started up a set of stairs. The house was bigger than he’d imagined and he soon found himself in a too bright, glittering bathroom with a vast shower, even larger bathtub and twin sinks sitting in front of a gilded mirror. Luxurious didn’t even start to cover it. It was a bit nauseating in fact. Moriarty retrieved an oversized red mallet from under one of the sink’s cupboard and opened it on the counter.

“Ta-daaaa,” he said dramatically.

“You’re really such a drama queen.”

“And you’re really cute when you get annoyed. It’s so easy to push your buttons, how can I resist?”

“Well, you’re going to have to. Shirt off.”

“Yes, doctor,” Moriarty purred and started unbuttoning his shirt slowly while looking him in the eye with that annoying predatory grin of his.

John couldn’t help it, he blushed and turned his back on the infuriating man, busying himself with washing his hands and getting the material he’d need ready. John had never been subjected to such blatant flirting before and it was quite unsettling. He’d gained his own nickname of Three-Continents Watson by being the one flirting outrageously so he’d never been on the receiving end of it. Especially not coming from a man. Even Sherlock had been rather subdued in showing his interest. John’s hand came in contact with the cool sleek surface of metal and he refocused on what he was rummaging through to find a very long pair of sharp looking scissors, probably used to cut off clothes, he thought turning it over in his hands, but he could…

John looked into the mirror at Moriarty, now bare chested as he sat without a care on the edge of the bathtub and their eyes met. He had obviously been watching John’s every move and followed his every thought.

“You could use those,” Moriarty said, his voice low and seductive as if to convince him. “You would know exactly where to plunge them so you reach my heart or you could just go for the carotid artery. Again, easy for someone as skilled as you, and you’ve seen for yourself that I’m no fighter. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

John turned around, scissors still in hand to look him in the eye. There was no fear there. Either he didn’t believe John could do it or he really didn’t care about dying. John did have the opportunity, the experience and this was as close as a weapon as he had come across since being locked up. He’d had to protect him during the fight against the Triad so he could save his own skin, but that didn’t mean they were allies. On the contrary, they were back to square one: a hostage and his captor.

John tightened his grip on the scissors. He could do it, and then take care of Moran, and everything would be over. Could it really be this easy? John took a step towards Moriarty, his muscles pulled taut in anticipation of what he needed to do. The heart or the artery? Just because he had to kill him didn’t mean he wanted him to suffer… He was standing over Moriarty now and still, he could see no fear there, he didn’t even shift back when the tip of the scissors swung before his eye. John’s breath hitched when the other man looked up at him, looking smaller without his blasted designer suit on, bleeding from several cuts where he had been hit by shurikens and even a graze from a gunshot, not to mention all the bruises appearing… Moriarty caught his hand holding the scissors, and John felt the flood of relief and guilt in equal measures flood over him as he thought the decision had been taken out of his hands, but, instead of taking the weapon out of his hand or even turning it away from him, Moriarty pulled him, his hand and the blade closer, needling the sharp tip against his exposed throat.

“Here, John? You can do it, you’re _so_ close. Just a little push,” Moriarty crooned, applying more pressure on his hand and drawing blood. “Or maybe you’d prefer here?” he asked dragging the scissors down to his heart, uncaring of the red scrape he was leaving along the way and pulling John’s hand once more to apply more pressure. “Stabbing me in the heart, how appropriate.”

John watched in horrified fascination as the tip of the scissors disappeared into the pale flesh, a small rivulet of blood dripping down his chest and down the metal blade. John snapped out of it when Moriarty’s lukewarm blood came in contact with his fingers. He pushed Moriarty back, dropped the scissors and fell before he scrambled back, panting as if he had just ran a marathon.

“You can’t do it, can you, Johnny boy?” Moriarty’s voice continued, teasing as he walked over to him, looking as forbidding as he ever did now, even half naked and clobbered as he was . “You’re not a cold-blooded killer. You can’t bring yourself to kill an unarmed, injured man, however much you hate him.”

John stared as Moriarty kneeled on the floor next to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear: “But you don’t even hate me, do you?”

John squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears and head with his arms, not wanting to see, to hear anything _he_ was saying, because it couldn’t be true and he couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t breath and he thought it might be because he was shouting at him to _shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up_... And he wasn’t crying at his own weakness, because grown men don’t cry, he was just shaking, badly, and his throat had tightened up so much he couldn’t get a sound out anymore. And grown men certainly didn’t let themselves be cuddled by psychopaths so John pushed weakly against Moriarty who was tutting in annoyance at his half-hearted effort and nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, his arms wrapped around him, an unwanted comfort when he felt so lost and out of control.

John didn’t know how long he stayed like that, his head bowed, resting against the other man’s shoulder, his eyes closed so he could block out the rest of the world, just for a little bit, just for some respite from all the madness that was going on around him, before he had to put on a brave front again.

The hardest part was opening his eyes again, watching as the bleak reality came crashing back down around him and knowing he had to confront Moriarty. Not for the first time, the man surprised John  by not rubbing his face into the gaping defects of his personality and instead returned meekly to sit on the bathtub and waited, humming a jaunty little tune. John finally heaved himself up, his limbs feeling heavy and sluggish, his senses dulled. He walked over to the first-aid kit, and tried to focus on being a doctor. Being a doctor was easy, he was good at it and there was no right or wrong, only what had to be done. He washed his hands under the tap’s warm water, ignoring why he had to do it again and why the water was red as it splashed against the white porcelain. Then he went to work on his patient: cleaning the wounds, disinfecting, stitching when necessary, bandaging. It was easy work, soothing by its familiarity. The hardest part was ignoring the two dark eyes burning a trail wherever they lingered on him. John was glad to turn away once more to clean up the mess he’d made. He was ready to be locked up wherever Moriarty thought was appropriate and just forget about the whole thing. If only he could wipe his memory like Sherlock.

John closed his eyes at the thought of Sherlock, he would be so disappointed in him.

The muffled tune of Stayin’ Alive suddenly rang through the cavernous bathroom. John looked into the mirror to see Moriarty fish it out of his pocket and frown at the screen before taking the call.

“This better be good,” he snapped. “Holmes?... Which one?… Are you sure?... Interrogate the others, then get everyone to evacuate the other meat lockers and go to ground… Yes… No, I don’t want to risk another incident like tonight.”

John had listened carefully at hearing his boyfriend’s name, before realizing it could as well mean Mycroft, but being privy to only one side of the conversation, he wasn’t exactly sure of what was going on. Moriarty stared at his phone for a moment before replacing it in his trousers and walking over to John, who was too weary to fight him off and didn’t even bother facing him, looking at the man’s reflection in the mirror instead.

“Go take a shower, love,” Moriarty instructed, kissing the back of his head. “I have a few calls to make and I’ll bring you some clothes on my way back. It looks like you walked through hell and back.”

John was left alone and he finally looked himself in the mirror, having carefully avoided his reflection before. He did look like he had been through hell, and not only because of the state his clothes were in, but because of all the blood he was covered in, most of it not his own. However it was his eyes that scared him the most, he might as well have been looking at a stranger for all the familiarity he found there.

_Illusions. Lies. Moriarty’s playing his little mind games and you’re letting him._

His conscience had definitely taken on Sherlock’s voice this time and John cringed at the venom and pure loathing in those words.

_But I’m not. Jim’s right. I can’t just kill him in cold blood. I’m a soldier, not an assassin._

_Jim, is it now?_

_No!_

_You’re disgusting._

John threw a punch at the mirror, glad for the pain and the fractured image that kept him from seeing the stranger’s eyes. He was going insane, he truly was.

 _Get yourself back together, Watson!_ he ordered himself in his sternest voice, slapping his own cheeks to keep the numbness he had felt earlier from returning. A shower didn’t seem like such a bad idea now and he stripped, throwing the ruined clothes in the bin with the medical waste before stepping into the oversized shower to scrub himself clean. The various stings from the soap let him know he’d need a few stitches on his thigh and a sizeable bandage for his knuckles. It had been foolish to hit the mirror, Jim would know…

John exited the shower, not wanting to linger where he felt so vulnerable and cinched a fluffy white towel around his waist, getting to work on healing his own injuries. He was trying to wrap a bandage around his left hand when Jim walked in, a bundle of clothes in his hands. He looked between him and the mirror, and sighed, putting the bundle down before taking his hand and helping him wrap it more firmly.

“Can’t leave you for five minutes, can I?” he commented but sounded pleased. John thought he’d at least be annoyed about having to replace his antique mirror. “Here, these should fit, but you’re bulkier than me so they might be a bit snug. I’ll send Sebastian out for you when wakes.”

John wordlessly took the bundle and waited, but Jim obviously had the same boundary issues as Sherlock because he made himself comfortable on the edge of the bathtub again. John sighed and dressed his lower half whilst keeping his towel on, having already forfeited his upper half when Jim walked in without so much as a knock.

“You’re going to call Sherlock,” Jim said without preamble.

John frowned, puzzled. He’d always offered his call to Sherlock like it was a treat he had to earn. This sounded more like a chore he was expected to do.

“Why?” John asked defensively.

“It looks like Sherly had been very naughty,” Jim sing-songed in reply, juggling with one of those  simple black phones he seemed to have an endless supply of. “Why don’t you ask him why he sent a  pack of rabid Triad flunkies after you?”

John blanched.

“He didn’t… He wouldn’t…”

“My sources say otherwise. Why don’t we ask him? Who knows, maybe he’ll even be happy to know he didn’t kill you.”

John took the phone and dialed, hoping he didn’t have to deal with Irene on top of everything else. It picked up on the first ring this time, which was encouraging.

“John?” came Sherlock’s voice, loud despite its raw edge.

“Sherlock,” John said, caressing the syllables he avoided saying the rest of the time, amazed that just the sound of his voice could soothe his anguish like a balm on a burn.

“Thank God,” he heard Sherlock say from afar as if he’d been holding the phone away. “I thought… Jesus… John, I’m standing in the flat you were locked in. There were so many bodies everywhere and then I found your jumper in pieces…”

John could just imagine that, but Sherlock was babbling which was very unlike him. Shock maybe? But that wasn’t what bothered him most. He glanced at Jim who nodded.

“How can you be there already, Sherlock? It happened not even two hours ago, how could you know I was there?”

The silence at the other end of the line spoke volumes and Jim came closer, his head cocked to the side to hear better.

“Sherlock… Did you sent those people there?” John asked, anger seeping through.

“Yes… But it’s not what you think,” Sherlock added quickly. “You weren’t supposed to be there. I just needed the distraction to access the office! I didn’t-”

“A distraction!?” John snapped in disbelief. “Christ, Sherlock! I almost died in there! I can’t believe you.”

But he did. This was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would come up with. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was angry, yes. Very angry in fact. But Sherlock had clearly been blaming himself since finding out he had set a bunch of killers loose on him. Jim squeezed his forearm and spun his finger, motioning for him to carry on. John sighed but he wanted to get to the bottom of this too, because Sherlock was not one for making such a monumental mistake.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock was saying and he really did sound desperate.

“I know,” John murmured. “Tell me what happened. How did you get the Triad to do your dirty work for you.”

John winced, that had sounded rather harsh but he was still fuming.

“Territorial strife. They wanted a bigger piece of the cake and I knew where they could hit. I just pointed them in the right direction.”

“And how did you know about that place? Why didn’t you check it out in case I was there?”

Another long silence and then: “Irene.”

Well that didn't need any clarifications, but John almost laughed hysterically when he glanced at Jim and saw his angry expression matching his own.

“I told you not to trust her, Sherlock. But you didn’t listen, because you always know better. Damnit Sherlock, that tart wants me out of the picture, and I daresay she wouldn’t mind getting Jim out of the picture too. I can’t believe you let her manipulate you like that.”

“Jim?” Sherlock asked frostily.

John felt like he’d been punched in the gut, remembering the stranger’s eyes in the mirror and Sherlock’s disgusted voice in his head. He felt too sick to answer, and what was there to say, anyway? He was broken, now. He wasn’t any good anymore. He hadn’t been able to ensure Sherlock’s safety by taking out his enemies when he had the chance. He was a failure.

“John? What has he been doing to you?” Sherlock asked urgently. “John?”

He had to answer. He couldn’t let Sherlock worry needlessly.

“Nothing. It’s me. I’ve let you down, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I should have… but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“John listen to me,” Sherlock said rapidly as if he was afraid of being cut off. “Moriarty is a master at manipulation, whatever happened, nothing is your fault. I think you’re suffering from the onset of Stockholm Syndrome. Don’t listen to him, anything he-”

Jim took the phone away but Sherlock’s words were playing on repeat in his mind. He’d read about Stockholm Syndrome, they’d even been briefed about it in the army and studied a case about a captured soldier who’d sympathized with the Talibans before he was retrieved, but that couldn’t be happening to him. That happened to the weak-willed, people easily manipulated… John frowned, trying to recall the circumstances in which it could happens and the symptoms displayed but since he’d never thought he’d be concerned… What had Sherlock been about to say? And why had Jim snatched the phone away just at that moment? That only gave credit to Sherlock’s theory.

“So, Sherly,” he vaguely heard Jim say next to him. “About Irene... any idea what rock she crawled under? I have a few choice words to tell her.”

  



	21. Of Monsters and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, John finally gets some respite... Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he isn't.  
> Thanks to my bestie, Abe, for reminding me John is not a wimp, and thanks to you all for your support! I know you're getting a bit impatient with the lack of John/Sherlock, but we're getting there... someday.
> 
> Finally just a last note to say I'm back to work on Monday so updates will be slower in coming. YE BE WARNED!

John didn’t want to fall asleep, he had too much to think about, to analyze, to plot. But so did Jim, apparently, which was a small comfort because it meant he wasn’t still hovering around him like an ominous shadow, and had locked himself in his office doing… whatever it was insomniac consulting criminals did… but not before he had tucked John in bed and kissed him goodnight. John hadn’t responded in kind, as usual, just sort of… endured it, letting Jim’s soft lips brush against his own, grateful the man never tried taking more from him than stolen kisses, even though he was in a position to so, or John didn’t know what he’d do. He just didn’t feel that way towards Jim. Sure, now that he’d gotten to know him, John appreciated how funny, smart and charming he could be, when he wanted to… but he just wasn’t Sherlock. It felt wrong, and not only because he loved Sherlock and suspected his heart would always belong to him, even if he never got to see him again. No, it felt wrong in a more visceral sense, like trying to forcefully fit two corners of a jigsaw puzzle together when it was clear they belonged to opposite ends. It just wasn’t meant to be.

To think John was suddenly going to fall for Jim, simply because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill him in cold blood was a ludicrous idea, but something Jim, in all his brilliance, didn’t seem to realize, or just didn’t care to acknowledge. Not that John was going to point out the obvious, he didn’t want to challenge Jim into proving him wrong. That could go very wrong, very fast. So, he endured.

But now, on top of all these conflicting emotions raging inside him, whenever Jim came too close or  touched him, coaxed a smile out of him or made him doubt himself and everything he thought he knew, John could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head repeating “Stockholm Syndrome” in a loop, over and over again, until he thought his head might explode.

John felt like the world was trying to rip him in two, so when the Dream tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he gladly let himself be pulled down under.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as he saw Sherlock, John knew this was one of his prophetic Dreams, simply because there was no other way for him to see Sherlock now. He also knew he should be investigating the vision, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock, his Sherlock, as awestruck as if this was the first time he was seeing him in all his glorious cheekboned beauty. John catalogued all the changes he could see: thinner, dark circles under his eyes, his hair hung limply as if he hadn’t washed it in a couple of days and he was even sporting some stubble, something John had never seen before, to the point he’d wondered if Sherlock even needed to shave. It was a worrying sight, but Sherlock’s clothes, on the other hand,  were as immaculate as usual, which meant he was just not taking care of himself properly, but had at least stopped by Baker Street not long ago for a change of clothes, and that meant Mrs Hudson had surely shoved a scone down his throat before she let him out again.

John approached Sherlock, intent on inhaling his familiar scent and committing it to memory but he stopped short when he glimpsed the ninja standing just a few feet behind him. Whether it was the one John had fought against or another, he couldn’t tell because of their head to toe black outfit. John stood close to Sherlock, as if he could protect him when he knew all too well he couldn’t and that Sherlock would be dying before long. That realization made John search frantically for any clue as to where and when he was. He hoped Sherlock would think to tell him before it was too late, the way he had at Maple Cross. It made the whole process so much easier.

He also looked for any sign of Clara and Oswald, wondering if Sherlock had sent them away now that John wasn't there anymore. He hoped he hadn't sent them packing in tears like his previous security detail. He’d liked the two Dr Who nerds, even if he was a bit miffed at them right now for not being there.

“You set us up,” a heavily accented voice said.

John turned around, trying to pinpoint the one who had spoken and who was undoubtedly the leader, but these people, the Triad, no doubt, were all standing in the shadows, surrounding Sherlock from all sides, the voice echoing against the grubby wall of the back alley they were standing in. However, John glanced at Sherlock and noticed he was staring straight at one black-clad man in particular with that satisfied smirk he wore when he figured something out. John couldn’t help but smile before inspecting the man in question: sharp black suit, black button down shirt, black tie… John would bet his left hand the man’s socks and briefs matched too. He could probably use some fashion advice from Jim. Unfortunately, there was nothing else notable about him, no distinctive jewelry, no visible tattoos, not even a scar to speak of.

“I didn’t _‘set you up’_ ,” Sherlock sneered, flipping his coat collar up while his eyes darted around. “You wanted to find one of Moriarty’s hidey-holes and I gave you one. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“We know your little friend was there,” the voice replied. “The blond soldier who lives with you. He’s the reason Moriarty escaped. It was a trap and I lost many of my men because of you.”

Sherlock scowled, his lips pressed together in one long line.

“He’s no friend of mine,” Sherlock ground out, making John flinch and stare back at him in shock. “He switched loyalties and has nothing to do with me. If your informants weren't so obviously incompetent and lazy, they could have told you he left weeks ago.”

“I’d like to believe you… but I don’t,” the voice concluded and raised his hand, signalling towards Sherlock.

Men walked out of the shadows, all around Sherlock, more than he’d seen at first glance, six at least,  and the chilling sound of metal being unsheathed sang in the night air. Sherlock cursed and tried reaching the only escape route he had left by barreling forward, knocking over a couple of men, but taking a couple of cuts in retaliation, before he could jump up to catch the first ring of a fire escape ladder, pulling it down enough for John to be able to follow dream-Sherlock up.

“John,” Sherlock said as he climbed, glancing down periodically with a frown. “If you’re here, it means I’m not going to make it.”

John startled, realizing he was addressing him, the Dreamer, directly, giving him the eery feeling once more that this was more than just a Dream. He so wished he had a way of communicating with him, of helping instead of just watching helplessly.

“I didn’t mean what I said down there. I had to try,” Sherlock added, stopping briefly to catch his breath. “They’re not following,” he muttered when he glanced down again, not sounding as happy as John thought he should be. “Just know that if this is it…  if this is the end for me and you can’t do anything… I know you… You’re going to blame yourself and you shouldn’t. I love you and I couldn’t be happier to have known you in the time we had,” Sherlock chuckled. “Of course, if this is not the end, I’m making a right fool of myself right now.”

John had to wonder at that: if Sherlock sometime spoke to him, thinking he was done for, only to escape unscathed. He did tend to get himself into impossible situations. Sherlock took his phone out and John thought he might have left it on the screen displaying the time and date just a bit longer than he would normally would, then, he called Lestrade and gave the address, asking for backup. John sighed in relief, he had all the information he needed. Sherlock hung up, looked up at the roof and then around him.

“I wish I could see you,” he whispered and continued upwards when the noise coming from downwards seemed to indicate his pursuers had decided to follow him after all.

Sherlock was out of his sight for only a few seconds, the time for him to climb onto the roof while John climbed up behind him, when he saw Sherlock fly over the edge of the roof in one graceful arc and fall past him, eyes wide open and staring up while the wind whipped at his hair and coat. John was still frozen in place, hanging on to the metal rungs and looking down with horror at where Sherlock had fallen… at Sherlock’s broken body…

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock!” John screamed, flailing out as if he was falling himself, but someone caught him and he hung on with all his might, blinking away the last image he had of Sherlock, his neck and leg bent at impossible angles. His only consolation was that Sherlock had been too far down for John to see his face, his eyes… From all of Sherlock’s deaths he’d had to witness, it made it a little more tolerable.

“John, shhh… It’s alright.”

John blinked away his panic, focusing on Jim’s earnest face.

“Jim,” John said urgently, pushing him back so he could look at him, then hesitated. He knew this day would come, eventually, and Jim would just have to let him go, willingly or not. “Sherlock…  I have to go. I have to warn him.”

Jim looked at him with an eager expression. If he refused, John would fight him, he’d even hurt him to protect Sherlock. He’d do anything for Sherlock.

“A Dream,” Jim whispered, his hand cupping John’s chin so he could look into his eyes. “You had one of your Dreams. Fascinating.” He paused considering. “Tell me about it.”

“Will you help me if I do? Help Sherlock?” John asked, hoping he could bargain his knowledge for Sherlock’s life. If there was one thing Jim loved, it was being well-informed.

Jim grimaced.

“I really don’t want to,” he sniffed. “But I’m curious, so just for this once… Sherlock lives.”

John beamed, relieved beyond measure and so grateful he could kiss him, but demanded a pen and paper instead, which Jim very grudgingly foraged for and handed him, but he seemed too curious to do otherwise and watched eagerly at the words John was writing, before scowling.

“Your penmanship is abysmal.”

“Like every good doctor’s. We’re specially trained to write this badly. Here, we can just give this to Sherlock and he’ll know what it means,” John explained and handed the slip of paper to Jim.

Jim took it, read it over and slipped it in his pocket.

“No,” he said simply, leaving John dumbstruck for a second before his outrage took over.

“What do you mean ‘no’? You said you’d help.”

“And I will. But I want to understand how you tick, John, how this ability of yours works. I want to see it run its course for myself, I want to see it unfurl, be a part of it, live it through you. Do you realize how intriguing this is? How so not boring? How special and unique you are?”

John gulped. Jim was giving him that look again, the one that made him feel as if he was going to be pounced into the ground and eaten alive.

“That you know of,” John replied and shifted back against the headboard, spine ramrod straight, but Jim took that as an invitation to get in bed next to him and lean against his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Granted… that I know of. Do you think there are many others like you?”

“Mycroft and Sherlock seem to think it’s a likely probability.”

Jim snorted.

“Of course the Holmeses would try to belittle you. I suppose I’m the good old fashioned villain in their little fairytale world?” Jim snarked, then seemed to light up. “Well, I suppose I am, at that! Who shall I be? The Big Bad Wolf who lured little Red into a trap to devour whole?”

Jim sighed and looked at him condescendingly.

“And I suppose you believed them.”

“Of course I did. You’re a bloody consulting criminal, Jim. How much worse can you get?”

“You wound me, John. The very purpose of being a _consulting_ criminal is that I don’t get my hands dirty. In fact, I daresay the Iceman couldn’t even make me stand trial.”

John’s look must have spoke volumes about his scepticism on that point.

“Even if he _knows_ , he can’t _prove_ it. Isn’t it brilliant?”

John bit back a retort about his modesty. He wanted Jim’s cooperation right now, not his wrath, but his assertion that he never got his hands dirty surprised him nonetheless, especially after all the threats he’d made.

“But you did…” John finally said, thinking back on the Dream in the warehouse with the fake crime scene and the fake policemen. “I saw it, once, you pulled the trigger on Sherlock.”

Jim looked momentarily puzzled before he broke out in a grin.

“You Dreamed about me before? I’m so flattered, John," he said, batting his eyelashes theatrically. "Will you tell me about it? I’m surprised I shot Sherlock myself to tell you the truth, that’s not really my style, but maybe I was having a bad day.”

“That- I think it was actually my fault. Now… I don't know. I’m not sure you were really going to shoot one of us. There was no point to it and you just said it yourself: it’s not really your style,” John bit his tongue, realizing he was babbling and saying much more than he needed to.

Jim’s eyes lit up with interest. Too late.

“Tell me everything, every single little detail,” Jim ordered. “No, wait. Tell me about tonight's Dream first, and then about your other Dreams. I want to know everything.”

John was to tired to bargain for a better deal. He had just ensured Sherlock’s safety and that’s all that counted. Hell, he’d even tell Jim his most humiliating memories if that kept Sherlock safe. So he shared his Dream with Jim and thought he might even have impressed him with the level of detail he could recall. He was quite proficient at it now, especially after Sherlock had given him pointers on observing what was really important. However, John was rather reluctant about sharing what Sherlock had told him on the fire escape. It was private, words meant for his ears only and he cherished them more than anything else right now. Besides, it would feel like yet another betrayal towards Sherlock to share them with Jim, so he cut it short. But Jim knew, of course. Nothing escaped him, the same way nothing escaped Sherlock. The two of them were eerily similar in some aspects and John often wondered where it had gone so wrong for Jim.

Jim asked him question after question once John had finished his account, and he was mumbling incoherently by the end, but that didn’t stop Jim. He was tireless, like a kid with a new toy, and John probably fell asleep talking.

 

The next morning, John woke up with a start. There was something urgent he had to take care of, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was and his surroundings were only confusing him more by the disturbing lack of white he had gotten so used to in limbo. Everything came back in a rush when the image of Sherlock falling flashed through his mind’s eye and he jumped out of bed, ran downstairs and skidded to a halt in the kitchen where he could hear the familiar sounds of breakfast being prepared, but too late, he barreled into Moran's hulking body who had to juggle with his bowl of cereals to keep it from dropping to the floor.

“Hey, Doc,” the man chuckled. “Inna hurry, are you?”

“Where’s Jim?” John asked urgently, swiping the milk off of the too tight pajamas Jim had lent him.

Moran raised an eyebrow.

“Out. Business to attend to. What’s so urgent?”

John frowned at the man. He had no idea what he knew about his Dreams. Nothing, he hoped, but Moran seemed to be as close a friend as Jim had, so it was possible he knew. John wasn’t taking any chances of having his secret more widely spread than it was already though and his mouth snapped shut.

“Not that urgent, then,” Moran concluded, sitting himself at the small kitchen table. “Come and have breakfast. Bet you could use some after yesterday. That was some hell of a fight and I’ve been in my fair share of them. Jim told me about that blasted ninja too. If I ever get my sight on him, he’ll  wish he’d never been born.”

John rolled his eyes, but he was starving and he fixed himself some toasts and tea for the both of them, falling into a strange sort of domesticity with this man he barely knew, save for the fact that he was a top notch sniper and could kill you in a simple chokehold without breaking a sweat. John found out he was a good story-teller too, so he was kept entertained all throughout breakfast, until the moment Jim reappeared. Jim sauntered into the kitchen, kissed the top of John's head, which made him blush beet red and Moran made himself scarce again, which made John wonder if he had been so chatty and amiable because he was on “babysitting” duty.

_Stockholm Syndrome... Don't trust anyone._

That made John wonder how paranoid he’d become. Would he start seeing ulterior motives behind what everyone did from now on instead of accepting that some people were just nice because they actually liked being nice, or sincerely appreciated you? Was Greg nice and helpful only so Sherlock would solve his difficult cases for him? Was Mrs Hudson housing them for next to nothing in case her little drug indulgence got her in trouble? Same for Angelo and his free meals: maybe it wasn’t so much gratefulness as saving up on favours.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Jim teased at seeing his somber expression when he took the seat Moran had vacated.

“No… just wondering.”

“About what?”

“People.”

Jim hummed, looking at him contemplatively.

“You’ll find they’re all rather dull in the end, I’m afraid. Just simple organic amalgams of selfish desires and stupidity.”

“Is that why you find them so easy to kill?”

Jim’s smile turned malicious, looking more like Moriarty, the feared criminal mastermind, than Jim in that instant, and John shuddered. Maybe he’d gone too far this time. Stupid, he’d been so good at keeping him tame lately too so careful about not setting the man off, but as Moriarty’s expression grew more somber, John knew he’d have to pay the price now.

“Do you realize you’ve probably killed a lot more people than me, Johnny boy? Even as an army doctor, you have used your weapon, haven’t you? Do you even know how many fell under your bullets? Do you even care? Or do you just swipe all of those nameless corpses under the carpet of ‘Duty’ and never look back?”

John cringed, the blood draining from his face at hearing those cruel words, all the more biting because he knew them to be true. Hell, one of the reasons John felt so blessed to have been granted his Dreams to begin with was because he didn’t have the nightmares his fellow veterans suffered from, because it gave him a new purpose in life and something to distract him from the horrors he had both seen and committed, because it allowed him to forget and keep the guilt at bay. Especially the guilt at having felt more alive on the battlefield than at any other time, at missing it when he’d been discharged, he knew that was seriously fucked up. Did he miss killing, too?

_No. That was..._

_Collateral damage?_

“And what about the people you couldn’t save, Doctor? Do those tally amongst your victims too? They did die by your hand, technically speaking.”

John could recall them, not by their names or even their faces, but by the wounds that refused to close, to be cleaned, healed, leaving only bright crimson blood on his hands.

_It wasn’t like that. He’d done what he could._

“You’re sitting on a throne of skulls so high, Johnny boy, that my petty crimes can’t even compare.”

John pushed his chair back, feeling sick, and stalked out of the room, hearing Moriarty’s shrill laughter as he hurried to the bathroom to empty his stomach. He had wanted to forget it all and had been doing a fine job of it until then. But he just had to taunt Moriarty, didn’t he? And the mad genius wasted no time in tearing away the blinkers John had been wearing to prove just who was the real monster out of the two of them.

_A wolf in sheep’s clothing and a sheep in wolf’s clothing. No one really as they seem._

“Johnny boy?” Moriarty sing-songed from the other side of the door after a light knock.

“Go away,” John muttered, feeling wretched.

“Oh. Don’t be like that. I was only answering your question.”

John frowned.

“No, you weren’t.”

“It’s not my fault you were asking the wrong question, but you have an answer now, don’t you?”

_I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A monster. I’ve fooled even myself._

A few minutes later, the door opened, because apparently, locks were as optional to the man as the concept of privacy. It was Jim who looked down at him with a wry expression and tutted.

“Now, look at what you’ve done to yourself,” he said and grabbed a towel to wipe John’s face and help him up, still shaking and sweating as he leaned against the sink's countertop, feeling that maybe if he could vomit everything that was so foul and twisted about himself, he might be worthy of Sherlock again someday. But as it was, maybe Sherlock really was better off without him nearby, in case he contaminated him, or worse, hurt him.

_Don’t listen to him. He’s twisting words, ideas, yourself… Don’t listen to him, John._

John averted his eyes from his reflection. He knew he’d see the stranger’s eyes there and he didn’t want to lose it in front of Jim, but Jim had other ideas and crowded around him so he couldn’t flee before forcing his chin up, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

“Just look at you, John. Look at you,” Jim breathed into his ear, his hand sliding from his chin down his throat, both seductive and threatening.

_Don’t look, John._

John twisted around to find himself face to face with Jim, knowing his defiance would either anger him further or amuse him. Fortunately, it was the latter and Jim laughed before stepping closer, bringing their bodies flush together, forcing John to lean back as far as he could.

“You’re so alive, John. So bright and full of fight. You truly are one of the angels, aren’t you?”

“I’m a monster,” John whispered shakily, trying to wiggle free.

“Everything that is different is a monster,” Jim answered in a murmur, leaning forward to nuzzle John's neck and bite lightly. “But don’t worry, you’ll soon learn the world is full of them. You’ve even met the worst of them... No, not me, silly," Jim chided and finally pulled away, giving John some breathing room, then taking his hand as he pulled him back towards the living room. “The Iceman. That one is a real piece of work and wholly deserves his title. Reminds me a bit of the White Witch in that children's book, with his secret police and obsession with control... Do you know it?”

At John's bewildered nod, he grinned and pushed him into the sofa, for which John was grateful because he was feeling so confused and sick.

 _John,_ came that small voice at the back of his head again, a warning.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Jim sneered as he threw himself on the sofa next to him and let his head fall in John's lap. “He likes to think himself above everyone else, so far above we're mere ants to him. And the way he manipulated you... Sherlock tried to warn you, I suppose?”

John nodded dumbly. How could Jim know all this? He'd been locked up at the time… Cut off from the world…

_Tortured._

Jim chuckled humorlessly.

“See how even his own little brother despises him? Did the Iceman promise you had nothing to fear, that he would keep me locked up forever?”

Another nod. John wasn't sure why Jim even bothered asking, trying to include him in his one-sided conversation.

“He was never going to do that, John. The Iceman wanted information, and he got it. From me, and from you. The only reason he would decide to get rid of me would be if I paused a real threat to Sherlock, but with you in the picture, his dear baby brother’s safety is as good as guaranteed. However, if I disappear, it would be chaos, so he released me.”

Jim chuckled at whatever his face must be doing and played with the hem of his borrowed shirt while waiting for him to process all the information. John’s mind reeled as it rearranged itself with this new piece of information his whole world turned upside down. So far, it sounded completely… logical… plausible even, except for one thing.

“Why would it be chaos with you gone? You're the criminal mastermind of the whole bloody country,” John said, frustrated that he couldn't follow and that it seemed to amuse Jim.

“And as such, I have my hand in everything, I can control, limit, punish... With me gone, there are no boundaries. Just look at what happened with the Triad when they thought they had an opportunity: civil war in the middle of London. Not to mention the void my disappearance would create in the Underworld. Every little group will fight like packs of hungry wolves to fill it, to take over the remains of my empire without a care for collateral damage, and The Iceman doesn't want any of that nonsense.”

John hated that his explanation only made more sense and he regretted the times when his world had been black and white.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	22. Quite the Unexpected Turn Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love your comments and all the love our dear Jim is getting, thanks for that.  
> Thanks to my dearest friend Abe for helping me out once more :)

John had been on tenterhooks all day when the time Sherlock was to be attacked by the Triad drew close. It was a good thing Jim was out “working” or he would have no doubt been annoyed by John’s constant fidgeting and badgering. Moran certainly was and he had threatened to chain him down in the cellar or fetch a tranq gun if he did not stop. He probably meant it too if the vein throbbing by his temple was anything to go by.

John couldn’t help it, though. They’d only had four days' notice for the Dream this time, it was the shortest warning he’d had yet, but that still meant he had to watch Sherlock die four time and Sherlock didn’t even know what trap he was about to fall in, quite literally. And, despite Jim’s reassurances that Sherlock would be “just fine”, John was still worried they weren’t taking the safest option and circumventing the whole event altogether. Damn Jim and his curiosity, but he was at least letting John come along. He didn’t understand his reasons for it though, and that made him suspicious. He had thought Jim would want to keep him as far away as possible from Sherlock, out of jealousy if nothing else. Not that John was complaining because he would finally see Sherlock, really see him, with his own eyes. That was certainly another reason why he felt so restless, torn as he was between his worry for Sherlock, the anticipation of seeing him again, and his doubts about Jim keeping his promise to bring John along, but most importantly to save Sherlock. Nothing was ever certain with Jim, he was so changeable, you’d have better luck predicting the lottery numbers.

“Time to go,” Moran announced when the sun was starting to disappear behind the horizon.

One less thing to worry about. John eagerly followed Moran and half an hour later, he was standing on a rooftop with a bunch of snipers covering the whole alleyway, a couple of Triad members had already been taken out, silently and efficiently, but John couldn’t bring himself to care because they had probably been the ones to throw Sherlock off the roof and they deserved much worse that the dark bullet hole in the middle of their foreheads.

Moran touched his earbud, winced, then rolled his eyes, prompting John to look at him questioningly.

“Let the show… begin,” he said in a very poor imitation of his boss.

John immediately searched the roof tops, if only so Moran didn’t catch him laughing at him because the man had no sense of humour to speak of, but he didn’t see Jim anywhere. He looked down and saw Sherlock! His heart skipped a beat. He was just as he had been in his Dream, stalking into the alley below before suddenly coming to a stop and turning round on himself when the Triad started walking out of the shadows all around him. John’s anxiety shot up.

“Come on, Jim,” he muttered.

But the familiar scene continued to play out: the accusations, the denial…

_He’s no friend of mine._

This was going too far already. Any minute now… John took a step forward, about to intervene, call for Sherlock to run, or scamper down the fire exit himself to come between him and the blades that would soon be pulled out, whatever it took, but Moran pulled him back, both immobilizing him in his favoured chokehold and silencing him with one shovel-sized hand over his mouth.

“Behave and watch the friggin show, or I’ll crush your windpipe,” he muttered in his ear.

John nodded but Moran kept his hold on him, not trusting him apparently. This at least explained why Moran had not been on sniper duty tonight: too busy babysitting. Maybe that accounted for his bad mood too. Soon, the Triad leader gave the signal to attack Sherlock and the night rang out with the sound of ringing metal.

“Well, well, well… What do we have here?” Jim drawled, stepping into the alley himself and seemingly alone if you discounted the dozen snipers awaiting his signal. “Jim Moriarty. Hi,” he said as he stepped under a light with his impeccable suit, slicked back hair and mocking grin.

Everyone froze, Sherlock, the Triad, even John, completely taken off guard by his unexpected, and rather dramatic, appearance.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me?” Jim added at their lack of reaction.

“ _You_ are Jim Moriarty?” came the heavily accented voice tinged with disbelief. “Kill him!”

Jim only grinned wider and in an instant the alleyway only had three people still standing.

“Care to repeat that?” Jim asked the lone Triad member who had been the leader of his little group just a second ago but now found himself utterly powerless. To give him credit, the man was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, shaking his head vigorously as several laser pointers danced over his trembling body. “Thought not. Now, you will be a good lad and run off to your daddy and tell him that if he so much as steps a toe out of Chinatown again, I will chop them off and shove them down his fucking throat myself. Is that clear?”

The man nodded, stepped back, stumbled and landed on his arse, scrambled back and finally turned around to launch himself into a desperate dash out of the alley while Jim had a put upon face that easily translated as “Any time, now.”

“Finally. Alone,” Jim sighed, looking at Sherlock who had frozen on the spot when men had started falling around him like dead flies and not moved since, especially since laser pointers were still moving all around the place.

“I would hardly call this alone,” Sherlock replied archly, waving his hand at the rooftops.

“Oh, that,” Jim said and waved his hand dismissively, the laser pointers disappearing, but he had made his point. “Happy?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

Jim put on a look of mock-surprise on his face, so overdone only he could pull it off and still look dangerous.

“Don’t you recognize your guardian angel, Sherly. You wound me.”

It was as if a lightbulb clicked. Sherlock straightened to loom over Jim threateningly.

“John. He had a Dream,” Sherlock concluded, brilliant as ever.

“Yes. I wanted to see it for myself, and it’s quite remarkable. Exactly as he’d predicted, to the very last detail.”

“Why did you intervene? Why save me?” Sherlock asked with a grimace as if the very notion was distasteful.

“Because I had a bone to pick with those idiots,” Jim answered, kicking the limp foot of one of the dead men sprawled around them. “But mostly because my dear Johnny asked nicely,” Jim said with a snide smile. “Of course… it cost him.”

Sherlock snarled and grabbed Jim by the lapels of his suit, but the laser pointers were back and he froze while Jim tutted and pushed his hands away to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes. John tried fighting Moran, hoping to take him by surprise but he’d apparently been expecting it and squeezed his throat tighter in warning, so John could only watch helplessly as Jim played some sick game with Sherlock.

“What have you done to him?” Sherlock demanded.

“Nothing he didn’t want me to,” Jim purred with a lascivious smile. “He’s such a good little pet, isn’t he? So… pliable.”

Sherlock was fuming which seemed to be the only point of this whole masquerade. John hoped Jim had finished taunting him because Sherlock would soon break his control and lunge himself at Jim just for the pleasure of punching his smug face, snipers be damned. John was tempted to do that too, to be honest, but he might actually get the chance to. However Sherlock wasn’t answering, wasn’t trying to have the last word as he usually did, which could only mean he was at the end of his rope.

“Maybe you’d like to say hello. It’s been so long since you’ve seen each other,” Jim said, pointing upwards and Moran approached the very edge of the rooftop, pushing John in front of him and  showing him off like some kind of fishing trophy. It couldn’t get much more humiliating than that. However, John cursed the height that separated them. It was only three stories but it might as well have been worlds apart, and the look on Sherlock’s face… The longing, the despair… John would give anything to be able to go to him and hold him until that expression was wiped away forever.

“And goodbye,” Jim sing-songed.

Moran pulled his back from the edge of the roof before dragging him out of the building and back to the car. Unfortunately, fighting the giant of a man had only given him a couple of new bruises, a split lip and a sore throat, and now they were sitting facing each other with matching scowls until Jim came back, looking so happy and satisfied with himself that John snapped and lunged himself at him. he had almost landed the promised fist to his nose when Moran intervened again, pulling him back roughly by the scruff of his shirt like some misbehaving kitten, which only enraged John more.

“Have you boys been fighting again?” Jim asked, unconcerned that John had almost bitten his face off. “Look at you, John, all roughed up again.”

“Can I shove him in the boot yet?” Moran asked sullenly, then grunted when John elbowed him in the stomach in his efforts to scratch Jim’s eyes out.

Moran pulled him back once more and held him in place in a vice grip.

“What was that about?” John growled. “Why did you say those things to Sherlock?”

“Why do you think, Johnny boy?”

“What are you making him do this time?”

“Very good, John. You’re learning. But it’s nothing too bad, I promise. I hired him to find one of my wayward pets. Isn’t that what detectives do?”

“They usually get paid to work, not blackmailed. It better not be something illegal again.”

“Illegal…” Jim mused. “Such a constraining concept. Not one I’m familiar with, unfortunately.”

John scowled, opened his mouth to demand answers, closed it again. What was the point? Jim was just trying to rile him up the way he had Sherlock, playing another round of whatever game it was this time around. The best way to annoy Jim was to ignore him, so John relented and sat back in the car’s seat, jerking Moran’s hold over his arm away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure about this, boss?” Moran asked Jim.

John didn’t blame him. Handing a loaded gun to your prisoner seemed a bit of a stupid move, but Moran had not been there in the bathroom. He hadn’t seen John’s inability to do away with Jim when he had the chance.

Jim grinned, seemingly amused at Moran’s sceptical expression and John’s eager one.

“Oh, boys. You’re just going to have to trust Daddy on this one. Now, hand him the gun, Sebbie, loaded if you don’t mind. Don’t worry, he won’t shoot you. He knows the price if he misbehaves.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” the man grumbled but handed John one of his guns.

John checked it over, more out of habit than anything else, because Moran treated his guns better than doting parents treated their children, and he stuck it in the back of his jeans, feeling like he had more control over his life than he’d had in the last month.

“So, where are we going?” John asked, looking out the car’s window to guess which part of London they’d wandered into, but to be honest, he was just glad to be out and about instead of being locked up like a damn canary again.

“You’ll see,” Jim sing songed, his Moriarty persona settling over him like a mantle. “An old friend is waiting for us and it’s not polite to be late.”

John didn’t reply. In fact, he made a mental note to stay out of Jim’s way for the duration of his visit, hoping it wasn’t something too unsavoury. John was ready to make a lot of sacrifices to protect Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure he could stand by watching if Moriarty and Moran hurt innocents. Maybe Moran was right about the gun, it wasn’t Jim’s smartest move, but then again, maybe this was another one of Jim’s little tests. How he hated his mind games. It took him forever afterwards to sort up from down, right from left, black from white… John wasn’t even sure of the result in the end, if the pieces of his fractured mind had been put back in the right slot, but he wasn’t all that good to begin with anyway. Only Sherlock’s words helped him get through it and nurture a small spark of hope that everything would be back to normal one day.

_I love you and I couldn’t be happier to have known you in the time we had._

Sherlock hadn’t seen the monster, or hadn’t cared.

“Johnny boy,” Moriarty sung in his ear before biting his lobe painfully. “Did you get lost in that pretty little head of yours again?”

“No, I’m ready,” John muttered rubbing his throbbing earlobe.

They entered a high-end hotel, the kind John had never even set foot into. He would probably have felt quite out of place in it too if Jim hadn’t been playing dress up with him, an activity which could have turned out more humiliating than it had already been if Jim had gotten his way and forced him into the kind of suits he favoured, or worse, assorted outfits. Thankfully, John had gotten away with very expensive, _very tight_ , casual clothing, but no jumpers. However, beggars can’t be choosers and he had to pick his battles.

John noticed the doorman hurrying forward to open the door for the trio, then the receptionist gave Moriarty a curt nod and wordlessly handed him a key while a bellboy ushered regular customers out of the way of the lift that was waiting for them. It was like watching the red sea part for them.

“Tip well, do you?” John couldn’t help but ask once they were alone in the lift, despising all the groveling.

“Well, they’re still alive, aren’t they?” Moriarty answered.

John reminded himself to just shut his mouth when Jim was busy being all villainy, and he slunk back against the lift’s mirror, waiting for the ping that would indicate their arrival. Jim moved without hesitation, taking one turn, then another before stopping in front of a door and opening it without further delay before strutting in, oozing confidence and malice. What followed thereafter was like watching a well rehearsed scene at the theatre.

“Hello, darling!” Jim exclaimed dramatically, visibly enjoying the fright he’d given the two people there.

John watched with a sick sort of fascination as Irene, all clad in dark lace and holding a riding crop, tried to make a swift escape through one of the side doors of the suite, but Moran easily caught her arm and held it in a bruising grip. John sometimes wondered if the man was simply unaware of his own strength, but he realized he felt no pity for the woman who had quite literally sold him to Moriarty before trying to steal his Sherlock and kill him and Jim by sending ruddy ninjas after them.

“John, would you be a dear and untie our dear Chancellor of the Exchequer? That just can’t be a very comfortable position,” Jim commented with a slight grimace as he cocked his head to the side.

John complied, taking a look at the man’s face to verify that, yes, it was effectively their Finance Minister all trussed up and half naked lying in front of him. He busied himself untying the various cuffs holding him in place, taking the gag out last. This had obviously been consensual so John didn’t do something as asinine as ask the man if he was alright, and the crimson blush that had spread across the man’s face told him he probably never wanted to talk about it. Ever.

“I did what you asked,” the Minister muttered, dressing himself at lightning speed. “I trust you’ll hold up your end of the bargain.”

“But of course, Minister,” Jim simpered, not sounding sincere in the slightest, but the politician obviously didn’t want to be there a second longer and scurried out. “Always a pleasure!” Jim called after him right before the door slammed shut, then winked at John who stood there, completely flabbergasted by what he’d just witnessed and finally turned his attention to their quarry: their “old friend”, Irene.

“You’ve been avoiding me, darling. That’s not a very nice thing to do,” he said with a pout. “Even our dear Sherly couldn’t find you, so I had to go through all the trouble of finding a nice juicy bait even you couldn’t resist.”

“I- I wasn’t-” Irene tried, standing tall and proud in her negligé and stilettos.

“Dont… LIE TO ME!” Moriarty shouted in her face, making Irene and John wince while Moran simply looked bored. “Do you really think I do not know who set up the attack at the meatlocker while I was there? Do you really think I’m so utterly clueless? I know your little tricks, Irene, I could smell your malodorous mark all over that pathetic little attempt. ”

“Sherlock… He was-”

“WRONG!” Moriarty bellowed again and John would have screamed at the wench himself if Jim hadn’t. How dare she accuse Sherlock when she’d been manipulating him for her own purposes. “Little Sherly would never dream of hurting his beloved toy soldier.”

And really, puns? Now? John almost felt like cuffing Jim over the head, but that would probably get him killed right now. Maybe later.

“Oh. But it looks like you know that now? How badly did he reject you, Irene? Did he break your shrivelled little heart, or is there still some of it left in there for me to rip out and _burn_?”

Irene’s brave front finally crumbled. Her bottom lip quivered while tears gathered in her eyes. And damnit, John hated her, but was Jim really going to rip her heart out? Jeez, talk about being a stereotypical villain.

“You know what?” Jim exclaimed, whirling around, suddenly all bright and cheery, which didn’t bode well in his experience. “I think John actually has more grievances than I do. Wouldn’t you say, Johnny boy?”

John gulped, he did not like the turn this was taking, but Jim was expecting an answer and he knew only one would satisfy him so he nodded. Jim smiled and took him by the arm, leading him to stand in front of Irene while Moran pushed her down on her knees. Before John knew it, Jim had put his gun in his hand and aimed it at the woman’s forehead. Stepping back to look at the picture as if admiring a work of art.

“Look at it this way,” Jim told Irene gleefully. “Either I rip you limb from limb for your betrayal, and I will make you suffer for that, immensely, or John shoots you through your silly little head: quick and clean,” he articulated slowly, flicking his index at Irene’s head and making her flinch. “Honestly, it’s the best solution, for the both of you.”

John’s mouth dropped open. How had it come to this all of a sudden? Had Jim planned this since handing him the gun? Since before that, when he set up this whole trap? Irene closed her eyes, apparently resigned to her fate, but really, what had she been expecting, trying to have Moriarty assassinated? By proxy, no less. Stupid.

“Oh, come on, John,” Moriarty cooed in his ear, sliding behind him. “What’s one more in the grand schemes of things? You killed dozens of people you didn’t care about and you don’t even like this one. It should be ea~sy!”

Jim slithered over to Irene, cradling her chin to force it up and she opened her eyes, pleading silently with John. She had a lot of nerve after what she’d done: trying to get him killed, trying to steal Sherlock away from him… John pushed the barrel harder against her forehead.

_What’s one more?_

“Yes,” Jim hissed, grinning. “Remember how this perfidious little snake tried to get rid of you so she could sink her fangs in sad little Sherlock, taking advantage of him when he was at his weakest. Who knows what poison she’s been whispering in his ears.”

John clenched his jaw. He had no doubt she had tried, she had probably gone all out and he wouldn’t be surprised if she had just strutted around naked in front of him in her damned stilettos to catch his attention. It would be just her style. John took in a deep breath, fingering the trigger lovingly.

_No, John. You’re better than this._

_I’m already a monster. What’s one more?_

_You know you aren’t._

John really thought he might be. He did want to hurt Irene, even if she was a woman, so what did that say about him?

_Monster._

John might have done it, he wasn’t sure. He felt… compelled, hypnotised at the prospect, but something felt off. This wasn’t an enemy soldier or a patient past saving. Hell, this wasn’t even an act of self-defense, it was an execution, pure and simple. John was still fighting his inner demons when the spell broke the moment the door crashed open and all heads swivelled to the entrance with various degrees of stupefaction. John was certain his eyes were about to pop out of his head, because right there, a few feet away from him, was Sherlock, a gun drawn on their little group. What a strange sight it must have been for him, their frozen little tableau with Moran and Jim offering Irene to John as he loomed over her with the barrel of his gun pressed into her forehead.

“John?” Sherlock breathed out and there were so many questions in that single word that John couldn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t think he could talk at all. His throat had become dry and constricted. After hoping for so long for a chance to see Sherlock, _this_ is what he got? Sherlock with a gun pointed at him?

Suddenly, Moran pulled his own gun out to point it at Sherlock, so Sherlock adjusted his aim to this new threat, because let’s be honest, John was no threat to Sherlock. He’d rather shoot his own foot than even point his gun at Sherlock.

“Right on time, Sherly,” Jim said, dropping Irene’s chin and wiping his hands on the lapels of his suit before returning to John’s side. “Of course, we weren’t expecting you, but the more, the merrier. John was just about to entertain us.”

John bit his lip. He didn’t want Sherlock to see him like this, to see what he was really like inside.

“Weren’t you, Johnny boy?” Jim whispered in his ear, invading his private space.

“Get away from him,” Sherlock growled.

“Or what?” Jim asked, snaking a hand possessively around John’s waist while the other materialized a gun he must have taken from Moran and pointed it at Sherlock.

That was more than enough for John to snap out of his panicked trance and whirl around to now point his gun at Jim, placing himself between him and Sherlock.

“Oh, John… How many times must we go through this? You can’t do it. You can’t kill me because you don’t want to.” He leaned aside to address Sherlock. “Isn’t that precious? I bet you never saw that coming? He really wants to shoot this little viper,” he said, nodding towards Irene. “But he’s incapable of killing me. Me? Isn’t that hilarious?”

John gritted his teeth. He knew it didn’t make sense. It made his head hurt trying to wrap his own mind around the whole warped concept. Everything had become so… wrong. Corrupted.

“Yes,” John murmured, drawing every eye in the room.

_Corrupted._

John let his arm fall, gun pointing down. He ignored Jim’s satisfied smirk. John couldn’t shoot him, he knew that, even now. There was no point in shooting Irene or even Moran, the both of them were just pawns in this game. And he certainly wasn’t going to shoot Sherlock. No, there was only one player he could take out of the game to solve it, and that person was himself.

_I’m corrupted._

Whatever he was now, a Dreamer, a monster, a guardian angel… John knew he wasn’t what he was supposed to be. He’d been corrupted and wasn’t any use to anyone anymore, least of all to Sherlock. He was bringing him more trouble than ever.

But this revelation… It was like John had just been hit by a stroke of genius, everything was so clear now. John slowly levered his gun up to his own temple, enjoying the look of shock on Jim’s face, but glad he was turned away from Sherlock because it would be too difficult for him to go through with it otherwise. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

 

 


	23. The Be-all and End-all of the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, my friends! The chapter you've all been waiting for and the conclusion of this story. It has been quite the adventure and I've received a lot of amazing comments and support from all of you so, from the bottom of my shrivelled little heart, thank you everyone!
> 
> And my last thanks to my best friend, Abe, aka A_Sherlocked__girl, without whom this story would have ended up buried in the pile of my unfinished fics, never to see the day of light again. She's been my crutch all throughout and made this fic a whole lot better than it would have been otherwise.  
> She's also the one who suggested the lyrics. Yeah, she's smart that way ;)

_I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed,_

_Get along with the voices inside of my head,_

_You’re trying to save me, stop holding your breath,_

_And you think I'm crazy, yeah, you think I'm crazy._

_The Monster - Eminem feat. Rihanna_

  
  


John had never thought this was how it would all end: standing between the most dangerous man of the country and the man he loved, threatening both to blow his brains out. It seemed surreal and an odd sort of detachment took over him. His index brushed tentatively against the trigger. Just one little pull, that’s all it took, it should be easy, but he wished it was even more so: his decision made sense, he knew it did, but that didn’t make the task any less daunting, simply because John didn’t want to die. However fucked up and bizarre his situation had become, he didn’t really want to end it by taking his own life. It was just the next logical step to take. He _had_ to do it.

“John,”  Sherlock called softly, footsteps coming closer. “John, look at me.”

John tightened his grip on his gun, looked out of the corner of his eye to see Sherlock drop his own gun and approach him slowly with open hands.

“Don’t,” John warned, his voice shaking. “Step back,” he added when all he really wanted was to throw himself into his arms now that he had the chance to and never leave again.

Sherlock didn’t step back, but he did stop, looking slightly alarmed and that was fine because John couldn’t see him from there if he looked ahead.

“You don’t have to do this, John. I can solve this, I can fix it.”

“You can’t. I’m…”

_Corrupted._

John shook his head. Now was not the time to break down, he had to be the brave soldier again, just a little bit longer.

“This was never supposed to be about me,” he choked out, needing Sherlock to understand why he had to do this.

John took in a steadying breath, shut his eyes tight as if it could somehow shut out the world. He had to do this. He had to. He pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his temple. Or should he shoot himself through the mouth? Vital brain functions were controlled by the medulla oblongata and he'd have higher chances to hit it directly if-

“John.”

And this time it was Jim’s voice, soft and lilting, not the way it was when he murmured terrible threats though…  Worried? John opened his eyes again to see Jim had lowered his own gun and was still looking a bit stunned by the turn of events.

“I can't do this anymore,” John said, speaking to the both of them. Hell, to the whole room even, they’d all been playing him to some degree. “I should have seen it before, this is the only solution.”

“No!” Jim and Sherlock shouted at the same time before glaring at each other.

Well, that was a first. Did the two geniuses finally agree on something?

Jim scratched the corner of his forehead with the tip of his gun, looking thoroughly annoyed before he let out a loud sigh.

“Don’t,” Jim ordered. “That is a very boring way to end the game, John, and _I_ haven’t finished playing with you. You can’t just go and make your own rules. That’s cheating.”

“So?” John replied defiantly now that he had the final solution and knew he’d beaten Jim at his own game. “I thought you liked surprises?”

Jim snarled and paced a couple of times on the spot before facing him again.

“Leave,” he ordered, his voice flat.

“What?” John asked after a moment’s hesitation, certain he must have misheard, but a seed of hope was already blooming in his heart which was beating harder than ever.

“You, Sherlock. Leave, now, before I change my mind.”

John kept the gun pointed at his own head and took a couple of steps back towards Sherlock to test the waters. Jim only glowered. This wasn’t right. What was the test this time? And more importantly, what were the stakes? John froze.

“Are you going to drop corpses off on my doorstep?”

“No, no, no,” Jim replied impatiently. “Your boring little people are safe for now.”

Then Jim grinned, seeming to have deduced something about him, and walked up to him, kissing him soundly on the lips while his fingers curled in his shirt before letting go again.

“But you’ll be hearing from me again, Johnny boy,” he whispered against his lips. “I can promise you that much. Leave.”

John had dropped his hand sometime while he was being snogged and staggered back to where he knew Sherlock was standing, blindly grasping for his hand before turning tail and pulling him out with him before Jim changed his mind again, before his madness took over and he killed everyone in the room in a fit of spite. That was only too plausible. In fact, he and Sherlock had barely crossed the threshold when a gunshot exploded through the air. They froze in the open doorway and John chanced a glance back to see Jim had shot Irene himself. He was having a bad day.

 

* * *

 

 

John and Sherlock didn’t talk as they walked hurriedly out of the hotel, not using the luxurious front entrance as he’d done with Jim, but one of those little known back entrances Sherlock was so fond of. John was grasping his hand as if it was a lifeline, letting himself be pulled along the way while he tried to grasp what had just happened. His heart was still hammering in his chest but he was trembling all over now as his adrenaline rush crashing down. He still couldn’t believe Jim had let him go, that he was free and touching Sherlock, walking by his side again, returning home even. He was so relieved he didn’t even care he’d just witnessed Jim murder someone, someone he actually knew, it all seemed so surreal he wasn’t all that sure it was actually happening.

Once out in the back alley of the hotel though, Sherlock swung him around, pinning him to the wall, immobilizing his left arm. John looked at him uncomprehendingly, feeling more and more detached from his own body even with Sherlock anchoring him.

“Your gun,” Sherlock said hoarsely. "Give me your gun, John."

John looked down quizzically at his hand to see that he was still holding it in a tight grip. Good thing they hadn’t left through the front door then, as it would have caused quite a panic. John let Sherlock pluck the gun out of his fingers, his hand felt so numb it had remained curled around the grip without him even noticing it. He watched as Sherlock tucked it away in his own belt, then refocused back on reality when Sherlock suddenly hit the wall next to his face.

“Damnit, John. What were you thinking? You were going to… You really were-” he broke off and let his forehead rest against John's, the contact sending warmth all throughout him as if he’d been so cold all this time far away from Sherlock and was just now discovering what it was like to be warm again. John leaned into the touch, wanting to close his eyes and bask in the newfound comfort, but Sherlock was breaking, he needed him, he had to answer.

“I-” How could he explain it all to Sherlock? There was so much to say, so much he didn’t want to say. Sherlock would be disgusted with him. Finally he settled with what had seemed so crystal clear before, even if it seemed less so now that he was safe. “I had to, Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock growled. “I refuse to believe that. You can’t do that, John, ever again. Whatever the reason. You can’t do that to me. You can’t leave me. Promise me, John.”

John pinched his lips. He had finally found the one thing Jim could not control, the one thing that could keep him at bay, but Sherlock wanted him to give it up? Back to square one? Again?

“Promise me,” Sherlock pleaded, cupping his face now, searching his eyes.

John never stood a chance. He was putty in Sherlock’s hands. His legs were shaking now, too, and he felt like the whole world might crumble at any minute, but he could at least do this for Sherlock. John nodded and Sherlock leaned over a little more to capture his lips, soft and careful, as if he was afraid John would break, but he was already broken. Or run? But he was right where he wanted to be, with Sherlock. Whatever his reticences, for John, that kiss was like being jolted awake by the electric shock of a defibrillator. A corpse brought back to life. He felt more like himself now than he had since that day he'd fled from Baker Street.

“We should leave," Sherlock mumbled against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip playfully.

John agreed wholeheartedly. He needed to put more distance between himself and Jim, and less between him and Sherlock, as soon as possible, but his legs wouldn’t follow and he slid down the wall as soon as he lost Sherlock’s support. His beautiful eyes darted all over him as Sherlock knelt beside him.

“You’re in shock,” he concluded anxiously, shedding his coat to wrap John in it.

John blinked at him. Was he? John felt he should probably know that, him being a doctor and all, but he just didn’t care. All he wanted was to cling to Sherlock and forget everything else. He must have succeeded too, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up in his bed in Baker Street, the previous night nothing more than a blur.

 

* * *

 

  
  


John woke up to find a flatful of people waiting for news of him. Mrs Hudson was overjoyed and hugged him twice before Sherlock managed to convince her to let him breathe again, but he was then immediately tackled by Clara in a bear hug before she let him down and hit him in the shoulder, the good one thankfully, but hard.

“Glad to see you too, Clara,” John muttered. “And you, Oz,” John told the silent, looming man before asking everyone if they wouldn’t mind leaving them for a while because he and Sherlock had a lot to talk about. But in truth, he just felt overwhelmed at seeing so many people he knew at once.

Mrs Hudson winked at him, getting the wrong idea entirely and their bodyguards complied too easily. In their case, it was more an escape than an exit so John should have known The Iceman was already on his way. In fact, he and Sherlock were still dancing around one another, trying to find their bearings: John preparing some much needed tea while Sherlock filled in the blanks for him from the previous night, when the umbrella maniac appeared, and John was instantly on the defensive. Sherlock noticed how tense he was but gratefully didn’t comment and started ripping his brother a new one as he did whenever his brother imposed himself unannounced at Baker Street. John was simply too exhausted, feeling like he’d just come home after a long trip abroad, so he let himself fall into his familiar armchair to watch the show while finding comfort in his warm tea. It still felt a bit unreal to be sitting there, everything so normal and ordinary.

“Late and useless, as usual, Mycroft.”

“So I see,” their unwelcome guest replied smoothly before letting his eyes slide over John, reading every little detail about him: Jim’s clothes he hadn’t changed out of yet, the dark shadows under his eyes, the bruises… Did he sees the stranger’s eyes looking at him too? Did Mycroft see how much John loathed him now that he knew? What else did he observe about him that John would rather be kept secret? “John, welcome back. It’s a pleasure to see you so well.”

John gritted his teeth, didn’t answer.

“Sherlock,“ he said turning back to his brother and lowering his voice, but not enough for John not to hear him. “Maybe I should take John to one of our facilities. I’m worried that with what he has gone through, you may find him a bit… changed.”

John wanted to lash out at the annoying git, but having to deal with Jim and his vicious little games for so long had taught him to endure much worse than such a pathetic little barb.

“Do you really think I don’t know about Stockholm Syndrome, brother dear? Or that John is unaware? We will get through this together. We don’t need your meddling, and we certainly don’t need you to whisk John off again to one of your godforsaken facilities to interrogate him for hours on end about his time with Moriarty.”

“It’s for your own good, Sherlock. For all you know he might attack you while you sleep. I don’t intend to hurt John, only help him recover as fast as possible. He needs doctors, people who actually know what they’re doing. Besides, his information may prove invaluable.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Mycroft,” John snapped, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair. “We both know that even if I had anything to give you, you wouldn’t use it to stop him.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, rounding on him.

“I mean that Jim… Moriarty, did not ‘escape’ his prison, per say. He was purposefully released.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded sharply.

“He’s clearly delusional, Sherlock, not to mention brain-washed. Where do you think he got his information from?” Mycroft asked with a condescending tilt of his head towards John. “See? This is why it is imperative that I take him with me. He's a potential threat, to you in particular. Maybe even to himself. It’s best if John is seen by specialists.”

Sherlock approached his brother and John felt his heart sink. He couldn’t deal with more captivity away from Sherlock, with people poking at his brain incessantly. Sherlock stared at his brother for what seemed an eternity.

“No,” Sherlock drew out with disbelief. “You’re lying. Do you think I don’t know the tells when you are? I know you more than you care to admit, Mycroft, or have you forgotten we grew up together? You did set Moriarty free. Why? Why would you set a madman loose in the streets when you’re always prattling on about saving the world?”

Mycroft sighed, dropping his inflexible ‘I’m holier than thou’ act and grimaced.

“Politics,” Mycroft answered reluctantly, not at all abashed at being caught in a lie. “A necessary evil. Not that I expect you to understand.”

Sherlock's face turned into an ugly sneer.

“Leave. Now,” Sherlock said coldly, staring his brother down and pointing towards the exit as he placed himself between John and his brother.

John marvelled at hearing those two words. The same two uttered in the same way by Jim not even an hour ago. Sherlock and Jim, two peas in a pod, two sides of a coin, the yin and the yang... So similar, yet polar opposites.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried again, using his ‘reasonable’ voice.

“Now!” Sherlock bellowed, fuming and looking like he might just throw his brother and his umbrella  through the window just to get him out of his sight sooner.

Mycroft glanced at John one last time and left. It seemed the man was not willing to alienate Sherlock in order to get his grubby hands on him, but John still feared he might come back at a later date with enough manpower to force him into a straightjacket, maybe when Sherlock was absent so he could feign ignorance about his sudden disappearance…

“John?” Sherlock called softly.

John came back to the present. Why was he worrying about maybes when he finally had his Sherlock back by his side? He smiled at his lover, crouched in front of his armchair with a worried look on his face. He stroked his cheekbone lovingly, drinking in the sight of him.

“I’ve missed you. So. Bloody. Much,” John said.

Not his most poetic declaration of love but he felt it so strongly it just had to come out. Sherlock smiled back at him fondly and leaned into a kiss before freezing midway.

“What?” John asked, puzzled, and a bit miffed, if he had to be honest, like being handed a fresh glass of water in the desert only to have it snatched away at the last second. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“Moriarty…” Sherlock replied tonelessly, apparently looking for the right words in the cracks of the wall because he wasn’t looking at him anymore. “That night, in the alleyway, he said-”

John raised his hand, cutting him off.

“I know, but it’s not true. He was… winding you up, taunting you. He didn’t- He never-”

Now John was having a hard time finding his words but it wasn’t a subject he’d ever thought he would have to bring up.

“But he kissed you, at the hotel,” Sherlock argued, his expression somber.

John blushed at the thought that Sherlock had to witness that. Guilt and shame that he had let it happen at all.

“Yes, but he’s never done more than that, Sherlock. I promise. I don’t think he’s interested in having reluctant partners, despite his many flaws. He probably wanted me to come willingly to him,” John explained with a grimace. “He’s just… lonely, I guess. Wasn’t hugged enough growing up, that sort of thing. Jim was rather… affectionate, for a psychopath, I mean.”

Sherlock scowled.

“He kissed you. No one is allowed to do that but me. You’re mine,” he growled with finality and John was strangely okay with that.

“I am, and you’re mine too, Sherlock.” John grinned. “Us against the rest of the world?”

Sherlock launched himself at John and the armchair almost toppled over at the sudden onslaught but it fell back on its four legs after a few seconds of indecision and John let Sherlock meld his body over him. Feeling another body, it’s warmth and softness, the intimacy and pleasure it could bring, without having to feel guilt or fear was marvelous. John hadn’t even realized how touch deprived he’d become. Jim’s touch was never welcome, feeling more like an invasion which had brought pain most of the time: nails to scratch, fingers to bruise and teeth to bite, unless he was in a good mood and gave him one of his sloppy kisses. John had kept his distance from Jim as much as he could, and had endured his touch when he’d had to, but now, with Sherlock, safe at home, John could let go, enjoy the sensation of skin sliding on skin, of the teasing touches of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth…

“John,” Sherlock panted.

“Yes,” John agreed. “Bedroom.”

Sherlock jumped back onto the floor, as agile as a cat and pulled John out of the armchair. John marvelled momentarily that they had managed to get comfortable at all on the rather small piece of furniture until he suddenly found himself flung over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What? Sherlock! Let me down!” he exclaimed but a laugh escaped him at the absurdity of his position, giving lie to his mock outrage and Sherlock marched towards their bedroom.

“No. You’re too slow and I want you _now_.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, John stirred into wakefulness by the delicious smells of bacon and eggs, coffee and toast. He sighed happily. His Dreams had returned to the comforting dancing swirls of colours, he was back home with Sherlock, they had talked for hours, and John had been thoroughly shown how much he had been missed. Several times. John really thought Sherlock was trying to kiss, lick and fuck the very image of Jim out of his head at one point, not that he was complaining but he’d probably be limping around today.

And now Sherlock was making him breakfast on top of everything else? Maybe he should go help him out before he started ruining it by experimenting because so far it smelled heavenly. John stretched and sat up when he felt someone stir in the bed next to him.

“Sherlock?” he asked, puzzled, when he glimpsed his wild mane of dark curls.

“Uhm?” his lover mumbled, blinking up at him.

John looked towards the door, then back at Sherlock.

“If you’re here, then who’s making breakfast?”

Sherlock froze for a second, possibilities lighting up his face before it fell again after each of them was successively dismissed. He gave a small shake of his head. He didn’t like admitting he was stumped and John was worried that he was.

“Where’s my gun?” John asked and Sherlock pointed at his pile of discarded clothes.

John rummaged around for it, threw on Sherlock’s silky dressing gown while Sherlock wrapped the sheet around him and they slinked into the kitchen where he could hear someone whistling a cheery little tune that seemed familiar to John, but not as familiar as the figure moving around the kitchen like he owned the place.

“Jim,” John sighed, resigned, dropping his gun because there was no way Moran didn’t have his own weapon pointed at him from somewhere.

“John!” Jim exclaimed, sauntering over to him with a spatulas in one hand and a plate of scrambled eggs in the other. “You look positively ravishing this morning,” he added, peeking down his half closed dressing gown.

John tensed when Jim leaned closer still, conditioned as he was not to react when the man claimed a kiss, but Sherlock’s naked arm suddenly shot out from under his sheet, his palm landing flat against Jim’s chest, stopping him inches from reaching John. John looked up at Sherlock and smiled in thanks. He should really learn to stop freezing like that whenever Jim approached him. It was worse than a weakness, it was almost an invitation and that made him sick.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded. “How did you bypass security.”

“Oh, please,” Jim scolded. “It wasn’t even entertaining finding a way in. You might as well get rid of it all, an army wouldn’t stop me from visiting my Johnny boy.”

“He’s not yours,” Sherlock growled, pulling John closer against him.

“Yes, I can see you’ve been trying to undo all my hard work, Sherlock. But whatever you do, I’ll always be in there now. Won’t I, John?” Jim replied tapping the side of his skull with a manic display of his teeth.

John scowled at him. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough, but he knew that Jim had dug a dark little nest deep in his mind that nothing short of a lobotomy would ever get rid of, and Jim chuckled darkly, knowing he was right and that he had won a battle if not the war.

“Let’s eat breakfast!” he said jovially, ushering them into the living room, where, unsurprisingly, they found Moran. “Come on, it’s getting cold and we have a lot to discuss.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock muttered but took a seat, looking regal as ever, even half wrapped in a sheet of dubious cleanliness.

John sat next to him, leaving Jim to take the seat in front of him and Moran sitting across, already piling bacon on his plate. Was that man just never bothered by anything. Ever? A Kidnapping? Sure. Beating someone up? No problem: how hard should I hit? A bit of murder and mayhem? Sounds like fun. Eating breakfast with your arch-enemies? As long as there’s bacon.

Jim kept his eyes on him, even as he talked to Sherlock.

“It’s not like you actually have a choice anyway. I could just kill you now and take John for myself.”

“No you won’t,” John said calmly, surprising even himself.

“No?” Jim asked with a pleasant smile.

“No. It’s like you said. If Mycroft killed you, it would create a chaotic void, but if you killed Sherlock, it would create a similar void all the coppers in the country wouldn’t be able to fill. It wouldn’t create chaos but an absence even you would feel: a boredom of such epic proportions you might as well just shoot your brains out now.”

John served himself a cup of tea, feeling Jim and Sherlock’s eyes on him but purposefully ignoring them until they sorted out their little dispute, hopefully without resorting to any more death threats. John prayed he was right though, that Jim wouldn’t shoot Sherlock right here and now just to prove he was wrong, but John didn’t think he would, mostly because he hadn’t Dreamed it, but also because Jim had been the one to ask what would happen to John if Sherlock was killed. Now, even if Jim  discarded the supernatural element, after the episode at the hotel, he should know John would not live without Sherlock by his side.

“Point taken,” Jim said with a chuckle.

“You’ve rubbed off on him,” Sherlock muttered.

“Not as much as I wanted to,” Jim replied with a devilish grin and Sherlock promptly tossed a toast at his head which Moran aptly intercepted and ate. Jim didn’t so much as blink. “So, I thought that instead of stealing John every now and again, we would play a little game.”

“And John is the prize I suppose? You’re insane,” Sherlock spat.

“You’re just getting that now?” Jim asked, amused, as he balanced on two feet of his chair before slamming the chair back down on all four. “It’s that or I snatch him from right under your nose again. So, what shall it be? Do you want to play a game and let me win an honest date with John, or should I just kidnap him, again? Because I’m not giving him up.”

John wondered if he should feel flattered at this point, but what those two men saw in him to the point of fighting over him like two hyenas over a carcass, he’d never understand. He shook his head and returned to his tea. Seeing Moran eat had cut off his appetite.

“Come on, you only have to win the game for me to back off… until the next round. Aren’t you confident in your own capabilities, Sherlock?” Jim taunted.

“Oi!” John intervened. “You’re not killing people to play your games! I know you like arranging murders,” he said pointing at Jim. “And I know you like solving them,” he added pointing at Sherlock, “But you’re not killing people to play games and certainly not because of me. You’ll have to make do with smuggling, blackmail, embezzlement and whatever it is villains do as a secondary hobby nowadays. Is that understood?”

“You mean you actually agree to this madness?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide.

John shrugged.

“I trust you, Sherlock. You won’t let him win,” he told him, snatching his hand to drop a kiss there, to which Jim pouted, while Sherlock looked smugly pleased. “It beats getting kidnapped all the time. Besides, it’ll keep both you and him occupied, and that can’t be a bad thing. It’s certainly a sight better than you trying to kill each other all the time. It’ll be like a holiday for me.”

“Why, Johnny boy,” Jim purred. “You’re being so convincing, I’m almost starting to think you _want_ to go on a date with me.”

John snorted.

“Don’t hold your breath. Even if you win, you know full well it’ll be a one-sided date. I’m not worried.”

“You’re underestimating me, Johnny boy. Well, I’d better be off before your dear brother smells a rat. You still have that pink phone, Sherlock?” Jim asked, sparing Sherlock a glance. John didn’t know what he was referring to but Sherlock nodded as everyone got up from the table. “It’s a deal then,” Jim said offering Sherlock his hand. “Game starts tomorrow at noon.”

Sherlock looked dubiously down at the proffered hand but shook it.

“At noon,” he said gravely.

“John,” Jim said offering his hand to shake too, in a rather rare show of propriety coming from him.

John smiled in approval and took his hand, but was immediately yanked forward so Jim could steal a quick kiss, releasing him in a heartbeat before Sherlock could react.

“Told you you underestimated me, Johnny boy. I look forward to our date,” Jim said with a wink and left, Moran shadowing him as always.

“I certainly hope he enjoyed that,” Sherlock muttered, pulling John into a hug before dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “Because that’s the last time he’s touching you. I’ll never let him win. Ever.”

And John believed him, without question, without doubt, without the shadow of a ‘but’. Sherlock never made promises he didn’t intend to keep and he’d break the world before he broke this one. John believed in Sherlock more than he did in his Dreams, more than he did anything else in the world. Sherlock would protect him just as he'd protected Sherlock, and John trusted he'd take the broken pieces of his mind and find a way to put them back together again, loving the fractures and jagged edges just as much as if he was whole, because John would too had their roles been reversed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, at noon exactly, Sherlock’s pink phone chimed.

 

**Lost: London Stone. You have until noon tomorrow. Send my love to John. xox JM**

 

“He can’t possibly mean…” John said, his mouth hanging open.

“Oh, I think he does,” Sherlock chuckled. “Come on, John! The game is on!”

  
  
  
  


 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know: The London Stone is at first glance a simple block of limestone and has been the subject of various legends, including that Brutus brought it here from Troy, that it marked the site of Druidic sacrifices, and that London’s prosperity depended on its safekeeping. Some think it’s the point from which the Romans measured distances.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the rather bumpy ride :D  
> If you did, I'd love to receive your kudos and/or comments on the way out!   
> I'll be writing a lot more Sherlock fics and Sherlock/Harry Potter Cross-overs, so be sure to stay tuned!.  
> Thank you all <3


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